


Beauty and the Ex

by aggybird



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst and Humor, Bullying, Dating, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Oblivious Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-08
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-10 18:16:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 26,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/788689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aggybird/pseuds/aggybird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles doesn't want to screw up his chances with Josh, so he does something he may regret: he goes to Derek Hale, Josh's intimidating ex-boyfriend, for dating advice.</p><p>Things don't go according to plan. But with a little magic (and werewolves) they might go all right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Stiles knows it isn’t his birthday, so he’s not sure why _Josh Dawkins_ has agreed to go out with him a second time.

Especially not after their first date went so horribly, epically wrong. Stiles should have known the stars were stacked against him when he ripped his jeans getting into his jeep and had to rush back into his apartment to change, making him much more than fashionably late to pick up Josh.

Closing the car door on Josh's fingers probably didn't help either.

Then Stiles realized he'd forgotten his wallet when he changed his pants. Even though Josh took it well--giving Stiles an exasperated but amused look as he pulled out his own wallet to pay for dinner--Stiles had seen his romantic ship sinking, fast. 

By this point, it wasn’t even a ship: it was a lifeboat with a cannonball sized hole in the bottom and water gushing up in a fountain.

And then--well, seriously, how was Stiles supposed to know that Josh was allergic to shellfish? 

Even that wouldn’t have been a huge problem, if Stiles hadn’t eaten shellfish for dinner and then tripped and smashed his lips against Josh’s lips in the least smooth kissing attempt in the history of ever. If the people who had invented kissing saw Stiles’ attempt, he would have been banned for life.

So really, can Stiles be blamed for thinking that Josh was only quiet because he was in regular shock at Stiles’ ineptitude and not in, you know, _anaphylactic_ shock? No, Stiles doesn’t think so. 

Josh apparently doesn’t think so either, maybe because he has a) low standards, b) very poor judgment, or c) he’s running a relationship rehabilitation outreach program for the terminally losertastic. Whatever the reason, Stiles wins.

“You’re kind of a mess,” Josh says, hitching his backpack up higher on his shoulder. It’s the Monday after their date and they’re standing outside Mythology 101, the class they share, because Stiles and Josh have similar interests which is why Josh is awesome. “But I like that. It’s the complete opposite of my last boyfriend, and that’s what I need right now.”

Yes, Stiles does not need to be reminded that Josh’s last boyfriend was Derek Hale, the resident surly campus sex god. 

Stiles knows Derek is an impossible act to follow; it’s like having Bugs Bunny understudy for Laurence Olivier.

“So, let’s try this again,” Josh says. “How about I pick you up at seven on Friday? We’ll go out for Mexican and maybe I won’t die when you try to kiss me.” Josh smiles, a little lopsided. He has dark curly hair and black framed glasses and apparently really bad taste in men. He also wears skinny jeans that show off his perfect ass.

Stiles is totally in love.

And he has a date in four days. Which is why he panics and does the stupidest thing he’s ever done. (And that is saying a lot because Stiles is even counting the Hedgehog Incident of ’08 _and_ The Case of the Mistaken Underwear of ’09.)

He goes to see Derek Hale.

\-----

Derek’s hanging out with the other aggressively attractive and terminally bored art students at one of the designated smoking spots on campus near the art buildings. He’s wearing a black leather jacket and a cape of ennui as he leans against the building. He's not smoking, but with the way his eyes smolder, he doesn’t have to.

“Hey,” Stiles says, waving awkwardly. 

The group turns to stare at him, and Stiles takes in each of them quickly: a hot blonde who’s very tell-me-about-it-stud, a vampire cherub dude with curly hair, and a big handsome black guy who looks amused by everything.

They’re vaguely recognizable from around campus, in the way that he’d remember their names if someone reminded him; he knows they’re the darlings of their respective artistic disciplines. Derek is actually an architecture major, but Stiles heard that Derek’s getting a minor in Fine Art. Stiles thinks that Derek already has a Masters in plain ol’ _Fine_.

Derek seems to be the leader of this little pack because nobody speaks until Derek looks Stiles up and down and says, “What?”

“Uh, I’m Stiles.”

“Is that a person or a condition?” Derek asks.

“It’s my name,” Stiles scowls. He takes a step forward, and Derek’s nostrils flare. Stiles would swear his eyes flash red. 

Suddenly, Derek looks a lot more interested. 

“So,” Stiles barrels ahead. “Here’s, um, the thing. You dated Josh Dawkins, right?”

One of the other three growls at the name, but Stiles can’t tell which one. And whoa, wait a minute, when did he get surrounded? The girl and the two guys have moved behind him and at his sides, bracketing him in, and he can’t shake the feeling that he’s facing Derek at tribunal.

Derek holds up a hand and the growling stops. “Yeah? Why?”

“Because I--look, could you call off your wolves? They’re making me uncomfortable. Do you hear that, silent people who have not spoken at all? You are creepy.”

Derek startles, and his eyes narrow. “Wolves?” he asks dangerously. Stiles gets the impression that everything about Derek is dangerous. His ears look dangerous. He has dangerous sideburns. He probably flosses dangerously.

Stiles clears his throat. “Sorry, it just feels like I’m being circled, and sharks or wolves were the appropriate comparison.”

Derek relaxes. Then he does some kind of eyebrow dance that must mean something to the other three because the vampire cherub _whines_ , and the girl says, “Derek,” and the black guy chuckles.

Derek’s eyebrows seem pretty final, though, and the other three leave quickly, the girl throwing disapproving looks over her shoulder.

Derek just stares at Stiles, so Stiles screws his courage to the sticking place. He’s probably making a giant fool out of himself in front of Derek, but he’s more worried about making a giant fool of himself in front of Josh. Since there is no hope of someone like Derek ever being interested in touching his dick, but there is the smallest, slightest chance that Josh might be, Stiles has his priorities in order. He’s a guy; he’ll do a lot of embarrassing things if it means something other than his left hand.

And if Derek helps him, he may not be going on his first and last date with Josh on Friday, but his first of many. 

He needs to get on Derek’s good side. He needs a really good opening, something with finesse. 

He clears his throat, preparing to wow: “Right, so. You dated Josh but you guys... broke up?”

Stiles has never been very good with finesse.

“He broke up with me,” Derek replies calmly. It's the calm of flat, black water where something green and slimy lurks below. Derek doesn’t seem overly annoyed yet--he barely even looks murderous at all.

“Oh. Uh. Well, are you harboring, like, unrequited love for him?”

Derek’s lips twitch, and he leans back against the building, relaxing. “No.”

“Great! Because the thing is, I’m sort of dating him and I was wondering if--”

Derek is up in his face instantly and _weird_ , Stiles must be sun blind or something because it looks like Derek’s eyes are _red_ \--

“You’re dating him?” Derek growls, and _hands_ , hands--oh man, hands, those are definitely Derek’s hands fisted in Stiles’ hoodie. Stiles brings his own hands up to grip Derek’s forearms, babbling away, because he likes his face and he doesn't want it to get pulverized.

“Hey, sorry man, I didn’t know you were still into him, we’ve only been on one date and it didn’t even go that well, I nearly killed him and that puts a damper on things and that’s why I’m here, I wanted to ask you if you have any tips that could help me, but clearly--”

Abruptly, Derek releases Stiles and steps back. His jaw is tight and he looks like he wants to take Stiles apart with his teeth. “What?” he growls.

“I was just--maybe hoping to get some advice? Which I realize now was very silly, I’m very silly. Have you ever noticed how secluded this part of campus is? Like, it’s serial killer secluded. I bet the student center is less secluded. I’m going to go confirm my theory--”

“Stop.”

Stiles stops.

“You want my help to... _woo_ Josh?”

Stiles looks at Derek’s angry, angry face and says, “What answer doesn’t end up with me getting bruised?”

Something predatory flashes in Derek’s eyes. “None of them.”

“Right,” Stiles squeaks. “Right, this was not my best plan, I’m--”

“Shut up,” Derek says, now back to leaning against the wall. Tension hums in his shoulders, and Stiles watches him force himself to relax. Derek takes a deep breath, his nostrils flaring, and he’s suddenly much calmer. “I’ll help you,” he says, as though he’s testing the words.

“You’ll--you will?”

“Sure,” Derek says, smiling slowly. It’s a sleepy smile, like something is waking up. Stiles is a little nervous about what, exactly, is awakening.

Derek pushes off the wall and Stiles tenses, but Derek only holds his hand out and says, “Give me your phone.”

Stiles finds himself immediately obeying. He watches, with a sort of train-wreck horror, as Derek programs his number into Stiles’ phone and hands it back, seeming very satisfied with himself.

“Call me tomorrow night,” Derek orders. “You can come over to my place and bring pizza.”

“I... can? I can,” Stiles decides. “Uh, thanks, man. I appreciate it. So, I’ll just--go. And do things. That are not here.”

This time Derek smiles big, and Stiles must be imagining things because Derek’s teeth look unnaturally pointed. “No problem, kid. I’ll do my best to make sure your man gets you.”

Stiles is backing away, but he pauses. “Don’t you mean you'll make sure I get my man?”

Derek arches an eyebrow, and Stiles gets the impression he’s late to a party he didn’t even know he was invited to. “That’s what I said. Now, beat it.”

\-----

Stiles frets over his phone the next day, alternately pulling it close to stare at Derek’s number, and pushing it away like his phone is a bad, bad man. Of course, thinking of bad, bad men just makes him think of Derek.

And thinking of Derek makes it really hard to concentrate in class. 

Also, he seems to be making new friends today.

“Hey, Stiles!” says a guy, sitting down next to Stiles while he’s waiting for class to start. Stiles has never seen this guy before. He looks like he’s maybe Hispanic and he has a big, friendly smile (and a somewhat uneven jawline).

Stiles is never one to turn down a hello. “Hey,” he replies.

The guy beams at him and--wait, did he just _sniff_ Stiles? “I’m Scott. Just transferred into this class. Could I totally bug you to help me catch up?”

“Um,” Stiles says, because joining _Supernatural Folklore in Medieval Europe_ in the middle of the semester is not really a normal transfer. And add/drop is in, like, two days, this kid must be out of his mind.

“Have you read DeGaul’s _Lunus Lupus Compendium_?” Scott asks hopefully.

Well, Stiles thinks. Well, _okay_ this guy can be his best friend. “Yeah, totally, but I like Poissier’s _Night Walkers_ translation better. It’s more detailed.”

Scott grins like Stiles has just passed a test, and they fall into a discussion about werewolf folklore. Scott is surprisingly well-informed.

The rest of Stiles’ day kind of goes like that. In each of his classes that day, he meets new people. He’s formally introduced to Erica and Isaac in his Anthro class when they sit down on either side of him, their leather jackets crinkling. 

Stiles says, “Awesome. Bracketing. Is this going to be a thing?” and both of them roll their eyes in sync, which is kind of impressive. 

Erica spends the rest of the class subtly mocking him, which Stiles guesses that’s her way of being friendly. Isaac just stares soulfully at him when Stiles asks him to pass the handouts.

He meets Lydia, who is taking Archaic Latin with him and keeps remarking that the translations the teacher gives are wrong. Boyd and Scott bookend him in _Superstition and Persecution in the Dark Ages_ and growl a lot whenever the teacher mentions silver bullets or swords.

Danny, Allison, and Jackson aren’t in any of his classes, but they sit with him at lunch, and suddenly _everyone_ is sitting with Stiles. They’re all watching him, weirdly expectant, like they’re waiting for him to do a trick. Stiles is beginning to wonder if some of them even _go_ here.

He keeps expecting Derek to show up, since these are clearly all his friends, but Stiles never even gets a glimpse of him, and he doesn’t want to ask Derek’s friends where Derek is because why should Stiles even care? And maybe Derek’s friends just realized how amazing Stiles was totally independently.

Or maybe Derek told them to check Stiles out and report back on whether or not Stiles was a hopeless case. Derek seems like the kind of guy who does reconnaissance. He’s probably trying to figure out how much work helping Stiles woo Josh is going to be.

The group tails him throughout the day, insinuating themselves so that everywhere he goes, at least one of them is in sight. At the end of the day, Stiles walks to his jeep with the whole group following him, feeling like a drum major leading the most leather-clad marching band in history.

When he reaches his jeep, he turns around and shoves his hands into his pockets, surveying the group gathered in front of him. He isn’t sure why he’s suddenly reminded of puppies. “So, um. It’s been real. But my jeep isn’t that big. And... I’m gonna go home now.”

“But you’re going to call Derek, right?” Erica asks. 

“Of course Stiles will call, Stiles is awesome,” Scott says, slinging an arm around Allison’s shoulder and grinning at him. “Right, Stiles?”

Stiles really does like Scott best. “Yes, I am both awesome and trustworthy.”

“See?” Scott says, nudging Isaac, who rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Right, well. Apparently, I’ll see you all tomorrow, I guess.”

The group gives him a collective nod, which is about the freakiest thing Stiles has ever seen, and Stiles has seen more freaky things than most guys his age thanks to the way he grew up.

He’s getting into his jeep when he hears, “Stiles! Hey!” from across the parking lot, and he turns around.

Josh jogs toward him, his curly hair flopping with the movement, and Stiles grins wide and waves both arms before realizing that might look kind of dorky. He dials it back to one arm and tries for a nonchalant wave. “Yo.”

Josh stops next to him and gives Stiles a quick hug. “We’re still on for Friday, right? I texted you a couple times today, but I didn’t hear back.”

“You did?” Stiles asks. Huh. Lydia and Jackson were messing with his phone at lunch. He makes a note to ask them about it. “Sorry, I didn’t get them. Yeah, we’re totally on for Friday. At least until you come to your senses.”

“No chance of that,” Josh laughs and glances away, like maybe he’s embarrassed, which is so adorable that Stiles _aches_. Then Josh’s eyes widen in alarm and Stiles remembers, _Oh yeah, my posse_.

Stiles also gradually becomes aware that the rumbling sounds he’s been hearing for the last minute are not coming from someone revving their engine in the parking lot, but from the throats of the people assembled behind him.

He turns around, incredulous, and the noise cuts off. Except for Jackson, who’s still growling--his eyes look _weirdly_ blue from this distance--before Boyd elbows Jackson hard in the gut and Jackson quiets.

“Um, hey guys,” says Josh. “I didn’t know you all knew Stiles, too.”

Stiles looks at Josh, surprised. “You know them?”

Josh shuffles, adjusting his backpack and pushing his glasses up his nose. “They’re Derek’s friends.”

“Oh,” Stiles says. Yeah, that makes sense. And no wonder they’re growling--Derek said that Josh broke up with him; they probably blame Josh for denting Derek’s heart, even though Derek didn’t seem too torn up about it.

Josh’s face is a lot less friendly now. He edges away from Stiles and says, shortly, “Anyway, see you in class tomorrow. I’ll give you a call tonight, okay?”

“Yes!” Stiles replies. “I will definitely answer. Like, probably on the third ring. I’ll want to answer on the first, but I’ll be playing it cool.”

Josh laughs and shakes his head, and his smile turns bright again. “Stiles,” he says, like he wants to ruffle Stiles’ hair. Stiles wishes Josh could; maybe Stiles will grow his hair out just so Josh can run his fingers through it. Mmm, Josh’s fingers...

His dreamy reverie is interrupted by a short cough behind him that sounds almost like a bark.

“See you,” Josh says quickly, and jogs off the way he came.

Stiles can actually _feel_ the tension ratchet down in the air. He turns to the assembled group. None of them look happy. Even Danny, who Stiles has pegged as the resident ray of sunshine, sports a cloudy expression.

“Call Derek,” Lydia orders, breaking the silence. She flips her hair over her shoulder and turns on her heel. At this, the others all turn and follow, and Stiles is left alone in the parking lot, feeling like he’s been scolded but with no idea what he’s done wrong.

College is fucking _weird_.

\-----

After Stiles unlocks his apartment door, the first thing he does is throw his books and keys on the counter and sigh.

The second thing he does is scream like a little girl.

“Aaahhhhh--how did you even get _in here_?,” he asks, scrambling back and clutching his chest. His heartbeat is doing dubstep right now.

Derek Hale materializes from the shadows of his kitchen. “Your door was unlocked.”

“No, it was _not_ , Mr. Creeper, I make sure to lock it every morning and I just had to _unlock_ it to get in, so your little swiss cheese story--”

“I locked it after I came in. Because you _didn’t lock it_ ,” Derek says, and he looks so honestly pissed off at Stiles that Stiles believes him.

“Oh,” Stiles says, his hand going to the back of his neck, rubbing sheepishly. “I mean, I was in a hurry this morning, so it’s possible.”

“Anyone could have come in, Stiles. Anyone. You weren’t _safe_.” Derek stalks his way across the small kitchen and crowds Stiles against the counter. The counter edge bites into Stiles’ lower back, and he thinks about leaning away, but something tells him that he’d better not show overt weakness around Derek Hale, like, ever. 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, slightly breathless. He could count Derek’s eyelashes if he wanted. Derek’s eyes are a startling green hazel. “Anyone? You mean like some ominous leather-bedecked dude with a five o’clock shadow and an around-the-clock scowl? And he might lurk in my kitchen and scare me shitless when I come home? That kind of thing?”

Derek snorts and backs off, which mostly just means he puts a normal, non-privacy-invading amount of distance between their bodies. He rests his palms flat on the counter, caging Stiles in, and takes another one of those nostril-flaring breaths like when they first met; like last time, it seems to calm him.

“You didn’t call,” Derek says. He has this sort of permanent growl thing going on with his voice that makes Stiles twitchy all over.

“Because I just got home? I get that you’re a busy guy and you’re doing me a favor, but you couldn’t wait another half an hour or whatever?”

Derek closes his eyes briefly, and when he opens them, the look he gives Stiles is curiously blank. “I didn’t want to. Now where’s my pizza?”

“ _What_? Dude, you have serious issues. Fine, come on, move, I’ll order us some pizza, you freaking Neanderthal. Move, move,” Stiles says, punctuating his words by putting his hands on Derek’s muscular chest and pushing.

Derek doesn’t budge, not even a millimeter, and waits just long enough to make Stiles aware that moving is completely Derek’s choice, and Stiles had no part in his decision. 

Derek gives Stiles a tiny smirk and steps away, taking up an insouciant lean against Stiles’ fridge, looking like a photoshoot in action. 

He probably practices in front of the mirror everyday, Stiles thinks meanly.

Then Stiles allows himself a moment of feeling desperately out of his league as he takes in Derek’s wide shoulders and slim hips and hooded eyes. Josh had all _that_ and still broke up with him. Stiles really doesn’t stand a chance.

“So,” Stiles says when it doesn’t look like Derek’s going to say anything else. Derek seems content to watch Stiles, and okay, strange, but he’s probably taking his time, sizing Stiles up. 

Stiles tries not to feel wildly inferior. He mostly fails.

“So,” Derek echoes. “Stiles. I haven’t seen you around campus before.”

“Ha, well, I am kind of a ninja.”

Derek raises an eyebrow.

“An anthropology ninja,” Stiles feels compelled to blather on. “I, uh, I went to Brown last semester, but I transferred here. The anthropology course here has more of what I’m looking for. And--” 

He stops, reluctant to get into the whole “I’m a genius but I’m also annoying” story that ends with his advisor having a nervous breakdown when he realized Stiles had disproved his great theory on Romani mystical practices, and the Dean asking Stiles if he wouldn’t consider just going away.

“Hm,” Derek says. “Erica said you take a lot of mythology classes.”

He _knew_ they were informing on him! “Yeah,” he says. “Most people think it’s weird, but I think it’s fascinating.”

“You like the supernatural?” Derek looks tense; Stiles sees a muscle tic in his shapely jaw.

“Sure,” Stiles says. “Who doesn’t?” And if Stiles has his own reasons for his keen interest in the supernatural, he’s certainly not going to mention it to a lurky guy he barely knows.

“You’d be surprised,” is all Derek says, his eyes cutting to the side.

“Do you like it?”

Derek gives a humorless laugh. “I wouldn’t say that I _like_ it. But I know all about it.”

 _O-kay_ , Stiles thinks, scratching at his jaw. He seriously doubts Derek knows all about the supernatural--most people have no idea what’s out there. Derek seems uncomfortable, and Stiles doesn’t want him to have second thoughts and leave, so he smiles brightly and says, “What do you want on your pizza?”

Derek relaxes at the change in topic, slouching against the counter again. “Meat,” he says, baring his teeth in a smile.

“Right,” Stiles replies slowly, palms up, as he fights thousands of years of evolutionary instinct telling him to _run from the predator_. Derek’s smile is the reason night lights were invented. “Meat. How obvious. Okay, I’m going to order, so make yourself at home.”

Derek nods, like this is acceptable to him, and wanders into Stiles’ living room. Stiles watches him for a second, unaccountably nervous, as Derek inspects his apartment. Derek runs his hands over everything he sees: the back of the couch, a lampshade, the desk under the window. It’s like he’s made it his mission to touch everything Stiles owns.

Stiles shakes his head. Some people are very tactile. He bets that Derek’s the kind of guy who likes to take things apart, put his hands all over them, run his fingers up and down and _yikes_ , stopping that thought right there. 

Stiles turns around, leaning one hip against the counter to steady himself, and pulls his phone from his pocket. He’s in college, so naturally he has the nearest pizza place that delivers on speed dial. 

That’s not entirely true: he has the _second_ nearest because he’s not allowed to call the nearest place anymore, owing to an unfortunate miscommunication with the delivery guy that ended with everyone covered in hot cheese. And not in the sexy way. If there is a sexy way, which Stiles thinks may involve fondue. Except that particular occasion had definitely been a fon _don’t_.

He finishes ordering and turns around, already talking. “Okay, I got one carnivore’s delight for you and one black olive and mushroom for--are you _smelling my pillow_?”

Derek is holding Stiles’ favorite couch pillow against his face, his cheek pressed firmly to the fabric. He looks like he’s just taken a deep breath, and his expression is blissed out. 

At Stiles’ words, he freezes for a fraction of a second, but then his shoulders ease down, and he shrugs as he gives Stiles a bland look. “My cheek was itchy,” he says.

“You were clearly raised by wolves,” Stiles says, and wonders why Derek flinches.

Derek sets down Stiles’ pillow on the couch and stares at Stiles expectantly. He took off his jacket while Stiles was on the phone, and now it's spread across the back of the couch, like Derek wants his jacket to take up as much room as possible. Maybe leather has confinement issues, Stiles doesn’t know.

Derek crosses his arms over his chest, his biceps bulging beneath his thin, dark grey t-shirt. 

“So,” Stiles says. _My, what big arms Derek has_.

“So,” Derek replies. Stiles has never seen anyone smirk without moving their lips before, but Derek manages it. His eyes are narrowed and appraising, and Stiles fights the urge to cross his own arms and shield himself. He feels like he brought a bright green water pistol to a gunfight.

It becomes apparent that Derek isn’t going to break the awkward silence, which leaves it up to Stiles, a not unfamiliar position.

“TV!” he says, suddenly gripped with inspiration. Derek raises an eyebrow. “Yes! Uh, that is, why don’t we sit on the couch--this large, inviting piece of furniture I have, see? And turn on the TV. Until the pizza gets here. And maybe... maybe discuss the reason you are in my house.”

“Okay,” Derek says simply. He doesn’t move.

“Right,” Stiles says. “Right, okay.” 

Clearly, it’s up to him to take the lead again. He eases slowly around the couch, noticing how Derek tracks his every move, and snags the remote from the coffee table before sitting down gingerly on the left side of the couch, giving Derek plenty of room on the other side.

He tips his head back on the seat, looking upside down at Derek, his neck arched. “Seriously, can you stop looming now? Sit down.”

Derek is busy staring at Stiles’ throat, not even looking at his face. Stiles swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and says, tentatively, “Derek?”

Derek seems to snap out of whatever thoughts were gripping him. He grunts and steps around the couch, settling _really uncomfortably close_ to Stiles, who looks pointedly at the acres of cushiony landscape spread out on the other side that Derek could have chosen. But no, Derek is right next to him, the hot line of his thigh running alongside Stiles’ leg.

“Hey,” Stiles says. “There’s plenty of room, why don’t you--?”

“What are we watching?” Derek interrupts. His expression dares Stiles to continue. It double-dog dares him.

“Guest’s choice?” Stiles replies meekly, sinking back into the cushions.

Derek snorts and snatches the remote from Stiles’ hands. He turns the TV on and flips through the channels, settling on a rerun of some procedural cop show.

They both sit silently for a few minutes. They both do not sit still, however, because Stiles is rarely ever still. Also, Derek is really warm. Abnormally warm. It’s kind of like hot cocoa warm--it makes Stiles want to wrap his hands around Derek and feel the heat spread through his fingers, chasing the chill away.

He coughs and fidgets again. Derek sighs loudly. 

Stiles doesn’t think either of them is paying much attention to the show.

The seconds tick by, and Stiles decides that this is the most awkward he has ever felt, and that includes the time he accidentally wore a clown suit to a funeral. 

He grimaces, remembering. That one wasn’t really even his fault: the birthday party was across the street, and Stiles was bad at directions. Rubber Nose Revels fired him the next day, but it was a stupid job, anyway; everybody took stupid jobs when they were seventeen.

Probably not Derek, though, Stiles muses, lost in his thoughts. He glances sideways; Derek’s eyes are riveted to the TV and he’s breathing slow and even through his nose.

Derek probably had a cool job when he was a teenager. Everything about him is cool, from his leather jacket to his perfect hair. He’s mysterious, and dangerous, and half the guys and girls on campus want him. He’s intimidatingly attractive, and he probably knows all the secrets of seduction in the world; he may have actually _invented_ some of them.

Which reminds Stiles.

“Josh,” Stiles says. Derek makes a grumbly noise, his lips thinning, and Stiles rushes on. “Can I just say that I totally appreciate you helping me with the Josh thing? I really, really like him and I don’t want to mess this up. I know you don’t have to do this. So yeah. Much appreciated.”

Derek’s quiet, but then he looks over at Stiles, and there’s a sadness around his eyes that makes Stiles’ heart clench. Maybe Derek isn’t as totally over Josh as he claims.

“You really like Josh?” Derek asks, his voice hesitant.

“Yes?” Stiles hazards, and blinks at himself. He should probably sound more sure about his answer, but Derek is incredibly hot and sitting very close, so it’s understandably hard to concentrate. He squirms in his seat, ignoring the tightening in his lower stomach.

Derek’s nostrils flare and his expression lightens. He gets this funny sort of sly fox look, but it’s gone in an instant, and Stiles squints at him, wondering if he imagined it. 

“You want pointers for your date on Friday?” Derek asks. He’s smiling a little as he drapes his arm casually across the back of the sofa. If Stiles leaned back, his head would rest on Derek’s arm and--wait, how did Derek know about his date on Friday?

Oh, right, he thinks. Derek’s posse of informants, the least subtle spies ever.

“You!” Stiles says, twisting his torso sideways and pointing his finger at Derek, who looks highly amused. “You sicced your pack on me!”

Because they’re sitting so close, Stiles can actually _feel_ Derek’s muscles tense. “My what?” Derek growls.

Stiles shifts closer, poking his finger into Derek’s incredibly firm chest. “Your pack of informants! Just so you know, I totally figured it out within the first five minutes, no matter what Lydia or Erica says. They followed me around all day! Now I apparently have half a dozen new friends that I never asked for.”

Which is kind of nice, not that Stiles will admit it to Derek. Today was the first time he hadn’t sat alone in the food court since he started classes here.

Derek makes this chuffing noise and rolls his eyes. If Stiles were pressed, he might describe Derek’s expression as _fond_.

“Coincidence,” Derek says, blander than vanilla pudding at a church picnic.

Stiles opens his mouth for a comeback, but his doorbell rings, presumably with their pizzas, so instead he levers himself up from the couch, accidentally using Derek’s distressingly muscled thigh to balance, and says, “Uh huh. You win this round, Mr. Hale.”

He heads for the door, pulling out his wallet, and nearly stumbles when he hears Derek say, smooth and low, “Good. I always play to win.”

\-----

Derek wolfs down his pizza so fast that it has Stiles contemplating Olympic medals. 

Derek licks sauce off his lips and looks at Stiles, who’s still holding his first drooping slice of pizza. The cheese slides off as Stiles stares in dumbstruck awe. 

“You gonna eat that?” Derek grunts, motioning towards Stiles’ slice. 

Stiles is pretty sure he saw Derek unhinge his _jaw_.

“Yes!” Stiles says, cradling his pizza to his chest protectively. He yelps at the scalding heat and realizes he’s smeared tomato sauce all over his shirt.

“Aw, crap,” he says. “Hold on, I’m gonna change.” He sets his slice down on his plate, fully expecting it to be gone when he gets back. Despite eating nearly a whole pizza, Derek’s expression is still alarmingly hungry.

He jogs down the hall to his bedroom and rummages around in his drawers until he finds a clean shirt that’s only forty percent wrinkled. He tugs his dirty shirt over his head, and turns to grab the new shirt from his bed.

He makes a high-pitched noise when he sees Derek looming in his doorway. 

Stiles pulls the clean shirt to his chest in an attempt to cover himself. “Dude!” he squeaks. “Modesty!”

“Don’t mind me,” Derek says. His gaze is rapt. “I want to see what I’m dealing with.”

Oh, Stiles thinks. Yeah, that’s... highly invasive, but Derek has a point. If he’s going to help Stiles win over Josh, he may need to know these things.

“Still,” Stiles says, his mouth curved into a dubious frown. “Warn a guy.”

“Do you ever go out in the sun?” Derek asks. 

“Uh, _rude_ ,” Stiles says pointedly, pulling the clean shirt on over his head and wishing he could sink into the ground when he realizes that his nipples are hard and very clearly outlined under the thin shirt.

“No,” Derek says, clearing his throat. “I mean--you’re pale. Like the moon.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, gesturing at himself. “Yeah, I know, my skin is fishbelly white and freckled. I'm like a pale beacon, I could guide ships to shore. Ouch, my eyes, the sun is blinding. Trust me, I have heard it all before. This is what they call a ‘library complexion.’ I spend a lot of time indoors reading musty books.”

Derek scowls. “I’m not saying it’s bad.”

“No, no, of course not. Your body is telegraphing it perfectly well nonverbally.”

Derek growls at him and Stiles watches his fingers flex against the door frame. “Some people are attracted to that sort of thing.”

“People like Josh?” Stiles asks hopefully.

“No,” Derek says, and the bastard actually looks relieved. Stiles is still not sure if Derek is harboring secret pining feelings for Josh, but that’s a pretty big mark in the _yes_ column. He’ll wonders if he’ll have to be on the lookout for sabotage.

“Great,” Stiles says. He flops down onto his bed, throwing his arms out and closing his eyes. He hears Derek make a choked, hissing noise.

Stiles cracks his eyes open and levers himself onto his elbows, his legs dangling off the edge of the bed. “What _does_ Josh like?”

“Power games,” Derek says darkly, his eyes flashing. Something must be up with Stiles’ hall light because it’s giving Derek’s eyes a red glow.

“What?”

“Playing games,” Derek repeats, moving so the light changes on his face and his eyes no longer appear red. “Video games. He likes playing video games.”

“Really?” Stiles asks, brightening. “I love video games!”

“Yeah?” Derek asks, weirdly intent. That seems to be Derek’s default setting.

“Sure!” Stiles chirps, hopping up from his bed. “Do you know what games he likes? Here, come on, I’ll show you what I have and you can tell me if you recognize it.” He breezes by Derek, who moves back so Stiles can leave the room, and grabs Derek’s arm to tug him along, excited by the prospect of sharing another common interest with Josh. 

When Stiles grabs Derek’s arm, Derek’s face goes through a range of contortions, from grumpy and shocked to happy and soft around the edges. His eyes are riveted on Stiles’ hand, like he can’t believe Stiles is voluntarily touching him.

His skin is smooth and warm beneath Stiles’ fingers. Stiles tries not to notice it too much.

Stiles drags Derek down the hall and back into the living room, directing him to sit down on the couch with a pointed gesture. Then he kneels next to his TV stand and rummages through his game drawer, pulling out his well played copies of _Fable_ , _Assassin’s Creed_ , and _Dragon Age_.

“What about these?” he asks, holding the covers up for Derek’s inspection.

Derek blinks and looks confused. His expression clears quickly. “Yeah. Those. All of those. Josh definitely played all of those.”

“ _Sweet_ ,” Stiles says fervently. “These are my favorites. I’ve played through them so many times I should get an award. It would be a really stupid award, but still.”

Derek’s lips twitch. He leans forward, bracing his forearms on his thighs. “What else do you like?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what else do you like, Stiles? I can tell you if Josh shares the same interests.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, rubbing his neck. Derek’s staring right at him in that patented soul-eating way he has; Stiles has to look away. “Uh, right. Well. I like playing video games, obviously. And mythology.” He darts a glance back at Derek, who nods encouragingly.

Stiles blows out a breath. “I don’t know. I really like watching movies and TV shows or whatever. Chinese food. Chinese food is great.”

Why does he feel like he’s being interviewed? This must be another way for Derek to size him up and see if he’s fit to date Derek’s old fling. Stiles thinks over his answers. Is there a wrong answer? Should he have tried to seem less boring? Because there is a whole part of Stiles that is not boring at all, but he never tells anyone about it.

“We should get that tomorrow,” Derek says, interrupting Stiles’ thoughts.

“Get what?”

“Chinese,” Derek says decisively. “We’ll get Chinese tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Stiles asks, bewildered.

Derek nods. “When you come to my apartment after class.”

Stiles doesn’t remember having a conversation about this. “Right. Your apartment. Who said I was coming over? I don’t even know where--”

“I’ll text you my address. Try not to be late again.”

“Late?!” Stiles demands, sitting up straight from his position on the floor. “Listen here, buddy, I don’t take orders--”

“I sense that,” Derek says. His mouth curls up like he’s remembering a great joke, and his eyes dance as he watches Stiles. There’s a funny expression on his face: an I-know-something-you-don’t suggestion at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Stiles remembers his Grandma Samantha looking at his Grandpa like that; his mom, too, when she looked at his dad. Like they were sharing affection and secrets.

Stiles clears his throat and glances away, blinking rapidly.

“Stiles?” Derek asks, his voice gone rumbly and concerned.

“Chinese, tomorrow. Got it,” Stiles says. “Hey, I’m kinda tired here. Think we can call it a night and pick up the rest later?”

Derek’s eyebrows draw down, but he nods reluctantly. He’s doing that nostril flaring thing again, which isn’t the strangest tic a person could have, but it’s still on the Animal Planet side of things.

Stiles stands and Derek echoes his movement, grabbing his leather jacket. He shrugs it on and lets Stiles lead him to the door.

“So,” Stiles says. Derek is standing really close again. Stiles thinks maybe no one ever took the time to explain the concept of personal space to Derek. Maybe he wasn’t socialized enough as a child.

“So,” Derek repeats. He tucks his hands into his pockets.

“Uh, thanks. Again,” Stiles says. “I know this is weird, you being the ex and all. I promise I’ll... treat Josh right?”

Derek snorts and shakes his head with a distinctly _You’re an idiot_ air. “Lock your damn door, Stiles,” he says, and then he’s gone.

Stiles shuts the door and rests his forehead against the smooth wood, letting out a deep breath. He thinks about Josh, about their date in four days; how Josh has dimples and a funny cowlick and a great smile.

He very pointedly does _not_ think about stubble or leather or the smell of the deep forest.

Instead, he twitches his nose, sets his apartment to rights, and goes to do a little light reading for his _Modern Approaches to Witchcraft_ class. There’s a practical exam next week and he doesn’t want to turn anyone into a newt.

\-----

The next morning he sees Josh in their mythology class. He tries to wave, but it doesn't look like Josh sees him because he takes a seat on the opposite side of the room.

Then Josh flicks his eyes at Stiles, lips tight and expression sour, and Stiles remembers that Josh was supposed to call last night, and Stiles didn't even look at his phone once.

"Shit," he says out loud.

"A simple 'Here' will do, Mr. Stilinski," says the professor, making a note on her attendance sheet.

Stiles sinks down into his chair and props his notebook in front of his face. Great, it's been one day and he's already screwed it up. He twitches his nose, waits until everyone is distracted, and fishes his phone from his pocket to see _Josh: 3 Missed Calls_. Crap.

The professor drones on about the early history of witchcraft as it relates to Celtic mythology, but Stiles tunes her out, casting surreptitious looks at Josh; Josh refuses to look at him again, and Stiles heart sinks down and oozes onto the floor through his sneakers. 

The moment the professor dismisses them, Stiles bolts from his seat and makes a beeline for Josh, who must somehow sense him coming because he pauses just outside the classroom door, his back to Stiles, and says, "Hey," in a cool voice.

Stiles stumbles to a halt. "Hey! Hey, Josh, oh my God, man, I am so sorry I didn't pick up the phone last night."

"It's no big deal," Josh says, glancing over his shoulder, his body poised for movement and making it clear he'd rather be anywhere than here.

"It is," Stiles says, shaking his head. "Seriously, I'm sorry. Stuff came up last night and I completely forgot. Not that that's an excuse, it's not, you can totally hold that against me until at least our one year anniversary, which I'm also likely to forget."

Josh's tight expression eases. "Oh yeah? Pretty confident there, Stilinski."

"Blindly hopeful is probably more accurate," Stiles says cheerfully, rocking forward on his heels as his tugs on his backpack straps.

Josh laughs. "It's cool," he says. "I thought maybe you'd changed your mind about Friday."

"No! No, no, and another no for good measure," Stiles rushes to reassure him. 

"If you're sure," Josh teases. "I've gotta head to my next class, but how about _you_ call _me_ tonight?"

"It's a punishment I'll gladly endure," Stiles replies, putting a hand over his heart and watching Josh appreciatively as he smiles and walks away. 

\-----

The rest of the day is pretty much the same as Tuesday, except for how Derek's friends drop any pretense at subtlety.

“Stiles,” Lydia asks during yet another class they now inexplicably share, “What’s your favorite color?”

“Red,” Stiles replies absently, chewing on the end of his pen. He’s trying to decipher a particularly cryptic passage in Archaic Latin from a book he ordered off Ebay, and right now he can’t tell if _phoenix_ is plural or singular. 

“Would you say a _glowing_ red, maybe?”

“Sure,” Stiles says, then looks up. “What?”

“Nothing,” Lydia demurs. She arches one perfectly shaped eyebrow and nods at Stiles’ book. “And it’s plural.”

Stiles looks back down. Dammit, she is _always_ right.

He gets a barrage of questions all day from Derek’s friends, and when they meet up for lunch he gets the impression there is a contest underway.

“I learned four things about Stiles,” Scott says proudly, slapping Stiles on the back.

Stiles gives him a furrowed look and focuses on his pudding cup. He has twelve on his tray because when he saw they had chocolate swirl pudding cups, he said, “Yes! These are my favorite!” and suddenly eight pairs of hands fought to be the first to bestow pudding upon him.

The next thing Stiles knew, he had the largest pudding net worth in the whole cafeteria. 

He feels obligated to eat all the pudding now, but chocolate swirl is _no longer_ his favorite.

“Please,” says Lydia. “I learned fourteen.”

“Sixteen,” Erica says casually, chomping on an apple.

“What?” Stiles asks. “You barely talked to me today!”

Erica rolls her eyes. “Yeah, but I stole your phone and looked through your backpack while you were giving your presentation in class.”

“Ooh,” Lydia says. “I should have thought of that!”

“You guys are all really disturbing,” Stiles says. “And you're not even _in_ that class, Erica. I get that you want to make sure Derek isn’t wasting his time with me, but don’t you think Derek should be the one asking me these questions?”

Scott blinks. “He is, man. He’s the one who told us to find out about you.”

“What? How does that even--”

“Heads up,” Jackson growls, and all the others go immediately alert, hackles raised.

“Stiles!” calls a voice.

Stiles is already turning in his seat and grinning because that’s Josh, and Stiles likes Josh, and Josh doesn’t invade his privacy or force-feed him pudding.

“Hey, Josh!” Stiles beams. Josh looks happy for about .4 seconds before taking in the general hostility of the table. Josh’s eyes look way more blue than usual.

“Hey... everyone,” Josh says through a very small, very forced smile.

“Dawkins,” Boyd says. Jackson cracks his knuckles, Erica puts down her apple very slowly, and Isaac’s hands curl into fists on the table.

Stiles fully expects to see a tumbleweed roll across the cafeteria.

Then Josh brightens. “You’re keeping new company, Stiles. Weren’t you hanging out with these guys yesterday?”

“Uh, yeah,” Stiles says, because it’s not so much a tickle of undercurrent in the room that he feels but tentacles wrapped around his ankles trying to drag him below. “You guys know each other, right?”

“We’re all acquainted,” Allison says sweetly.

Josh smiles back just as sweetly. “How’s Derek?”

Stiles feels like he’s missing several pages from the script.

“Oh, you know,” says Danny. His smile is calm but Stiles doesn’t miss the way Danny’s hands are very carefully _not_ squeezing his Coke can. “He’s keeping up with things. Staying interested.” Everyone at the table shifts incrementally closer to Stiles at the last word.

Josh gives Stiles a brief, speculative look, and says, “ _Really_ ,” in a tone that Stiles has never heard him use before.

“I can’t stay long,” Josh says, giving Stiles another of his delicious, dimpled grins, “But I saw you and I wanted to say hello. I'm looking forward to your call tonight.”

“Stiles is hanging out with Derek tonight,” Scott says, his uneven jaw looking much more stubbornly even.

“That doesn’t mean Stiles can’t make a phone call,” Josh says, raising his eyebrows. He pushes his glasses up his nose and looks at Stiles. “Does it?” he asks, embarrassed and awkward.

“Dude, no, totally!” Stiles hurries to reassure him, reaching out to touch Josh’s arm. “Yeah, I can't wait either.”

“Great,” Josh says. Stiles thinks there’s something almost too pleased about Josh’s smile because Stiles isn’t typically the kind of guy that people get excited over. “I’ll talk to you later.” He squeezes Stiles’ hand and walks off.

Stiles heaves a dopey sigh after him, resting his chin on his hand and putting his elbow on the table straight into an open pudding cup.

“Dammit!” he splutters, hurriedly lifting his elbow. Goopy pudding slides off his sleeve and plops to the table.

“Oh, more bad news,” Jackson says, holding up Stiles’ phone. “I think your phone’s broken.”

The phone’s screen is very definitely black. Stiles groans as he swipes ineffectually at the mess on his elbow with a napkin that Allison hands him. “Great, just great. I upgraded the operating system last night and I bet I crashed it. Now I’ll have to root the damn thing--”

“No,” says Boyd evenly, taking the phone from Jackson. “It looks like one of your pens punched a hole in it. Strange, but I’ve seen it happen.”

Boyd hands him the phone, and sure enough, there is a puncture mark on the back, right over the battery compartment. He glances up at the group suspiciously. “You have?”

“Yup,” Boyd says, and the rest of them nod in tandem. “Don’t worry, we’ll call Derek for you.”

Stiles slumps in his chair. “Thanks. Pass me another pudding,” he says, resigned. 

Eight pairs of hands shoot toward his tray.

\-----

After Stiles finally ditches his Derek-assigned detail at the end of the day, he gets in his jeep and heads straight to Derek’s apartment, which doesn’t really feel like a win. 

He doesn’t worry about getting lost on the way: he has written instructions, printed instructions, and Jackson _held him down_ and wrote Derek’s address on Stiles’ hand. Erica taped a note to Stiles’ backpack. He hates her the most.

Boyd or one of the others must have called Derek like they said because Derek’s waiting outside his apartment building when Stiles gets there. It’s a very swanky apartment complex in the most expensive part of town, which just figures. The buildings have clean lines and well-manicured lawns, but Derek is an architecture student, so Stiles shouldn’t be surprised he’d choose someplace beautiful to live. 

“Hey,” Derek greets, his hands in his pockets. If Stiles didn’t know better, he’d say Derek looks nervous.

“Hey!” Stiles says, hopping out of his jeep. He swings his backpack over his shoulder and takes two steps toward Derek, but Derek is _right there_ in less than a second, his hand on Stiles’ arm.

“You saw Josh today,” Derek says, his voice gravelly. He should really get that checked out; he might have laryngitis or something.

“Uh, yes? How did you--oh, right. One of your puppies told you, huh? Worried I’ll screw things up with him and go off script?” Stiles grins.

Derek’s fingers flex, and he takes a deep breath. “Something like that,” he says. “Give me that.” 

He tugs Stiles’ backpack from his shoulder, and Stiles is actually kind of grateful because he’s got three textbooks and five library books in there; the study of mythology can be both literally and figuratively heavy.

“Thanks,” Stiles says, falling into step beside Derek as they cross the parking lot. Derek grunts in reply, but this grunt has a distinctly _You’re welcome_ feel to it. Stiles is learning to decipher them.

“Wow, this place is really nice,” Stiles says, letting out a low whistle as they enter the building through glass doors with gold handles. 

An honest-to-God doorman stands on duty in uniform; he holds the door open for them with a respectful nod toward Derek. Stiles is impressed: _his_ apartment building doesn’t have a doorman--just a hobo, and he’s very unreliable. The doorman does a double-take when he spots Stiles, but Stiles can’t spare him any more thought--he’s too busy trying to keep up with Derek’s long strides. His sneakers squeak on the marble lobby floor as he hurries after him.

They head straight for the elevators, and Stiles thinks it’s sort of funny how people clear out of Derek’s way like he’s in charge. Everyone he sees looks gorgeous and well-dressed, and Stiles wonders if this is some kind of supermodel nesting ground. They keep watching Stiles, and he thinks it’s weird that so many of them have such blue eyes. Derek doesn’t even seem to notice them.

Once they’re alone inside the elevator and the doors close, Derek breathes out like he’s relieved. Probably worried Stiles would be embarrassing; Stiles can’t blame him--let the record show, Stiles is definitely embarrassing. 

Derek is standing really close. Stiles looks around surreptitiously and guesses the elevator is big enough to comfortably hold about fifteen people. It’s got mirrors and thick red carpet on the floor.

But nope, Derek is standing so close that their shoulders are pressed together. It’s not a casual brush, either, it’s like Derek’s shoulder really wants to meet Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles gets the feeling that if he tried to move away, Derek’s shoulder would follow, so he kind of goes with it, humming along to the elevator music. 

He can see Derek watching him in the mirrored walls, trying to be stealthy about it. Derek looks a little funny with Stiles’ goofy comic book print backpack slung over his shoulder, but he doesn’t seem to mind. 

“You’re totally paying for the Chinese, by the way,” Stiles says, nudging Derek’s shoulder. 

Derek’s eyes widen, then narrow. “You think so?”

“Dude, your elevator has _crystal buttons_. I’m ordering extra spring rolls.”

Derek snorts just as the elevator plays a chime and the doors open to reveal a long hallway. 

“Whoa,” Stiles says, hanging back in the elevator as Derek steps out. “Do I need to take my shoes off? _Can_ I take my shoes off? I bet that carpet feels amazing.”

“Come on, Stiles,” Derek says, reaching back into the elevator and grabbing hold of Stiles’ hoodie. He tugs Stiles along after him, and Stiles nearly stumbles as his feet sink deeply into the plush carpet.

“Hey, handsy!” Stiles complains. Derek’s reply is to tighten his fingers in the front of Stiles’ sweater and give an extra tug that sends Stiles crashing into Derek’s back just as they reach Derek’s door.

“Oof,” Stiles says eloquently through a mouthful of leather jacket. He pulls hurriedly away, wiping at the bit of saliva he’s left behind. Derek gives a strange shudder, and Stiles suspects he’s repressing his completely justified murderous urges.

“Uh, sorry,” Stiles says, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “Is this your place?”

“No,” Derek says. “I felt like stopping here and seeing if my key would work.”

“Well, that’s just _weird_ ,” Stiles replies.

Derek rolls his eyes and unlocks his door, then grabs hold of Stiles again and tugs him inside.

Derek’s apartment is nice. It’s beyond nice--it’s elegant. And expensive. High, cathedral ceilings and huge windows that take up most of the walls; afternoon sunlight streams into the space, glinting off the polished marble in Derek’s kitchen and painting bright patches on the back of Derek’s leather sofa and across his wood floors.

Stiles gives a low whistle. “Wow.”

“Thanks,” Derek says. “I designed it.”

“What? How?” Stiles asks. “Did you move in while they were still doing construction or something?”

Derek stares at him. “Did you see the name on this building?”

“‘Yes’ is the correct answer, I’m guessing, but what is the _truthful_ answer?”

Derek sets Stiles’ backpack down on the floor next to the kitchen counter and straightens, rubbing his face. Stiles suspects greatly that Derek is doing it to cover a laugh.

“Hale Towers?” Derek says, leaning his hip against the counter and emphasizing the extremely snug fit of his jeans. He’s got a lopsided smile like a leaf unfurling, and he’s watching Stiles.

“Oh,” Stiles says. He forgets that Derek is a talented architect--it’s like a leather and stubble fugue overtakes his higher brain function sometimes where Derek is concerned. “In my defense, I’m not thinking clearly because I’m hungry.”

“I don’t see how,” Derek says, pushing away from the counter and stalking over to Stiles, “Not when I know you ate your body weight in pudding today.” He brushes past Stiles and heads into the living room, and Stiles relaxes because he’d been anticipating--he’s not sure what.

Stiles spins around. “Very funny. Your little pack is kind of creepy, you know, befriending me and sitting with me and getting me pudding and smiling all the time.”

Derek raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, they sound diabolical.”

“Did they gather enough intel for you? I felt like I was playing speed Jeopardy. ‘Yes, I’ll take Stiles’ childhood hopes and dreams for $200, Alex.’ So, what’s the verdict? You know even more about me now. Do you think I have any hope with Josh?”

Derek frowns. “Yes,” he says shortly. He crouches down and rummages through the cabinets under his entertainment center. 

Derek has an enormous flatscreen TV mounted on his wall; it's so wide that Stiles doesn’t think his hands could touch either side if he stretched them out. He can admit that he’s jealous. He has a flatscreen in his own apartment, but it’s probably five years old and looks like a B-52 compared to Derek’s F-16. 

Derek’s TV is shiny, black, and razor-thin. It’s the kind of TV that would wear a leather jacket. 

It goes with the rest of the apartment, which is all clean lines, stainless steel, and industrial palette. Derek has one of those flat fireplaces, built into the wall on the side of the room; a big, framed photograph of the full moon seen through the branches of a live oak hangs above the fireplace. Stiles flops down on the couch, groaning when he sinks into the cool leather. Derek looks up at the sound.

“Man,” Stiles says, closing his eyes. “This is a nice couch. I could sleep on this couch.”

“You could,” Derek says. It sounds like something is caught in his throat.

Stiles blinks open his eyes and looks over. Derek’s still hunched by the entertainment center and there are a lot more wires tangled around his feet than there were before, including a familiar black box.

“What are you doing?” Stiles asks, sitting up.

“Trying to set up this Xbox thing,” Derek replies.

“ _Trying_ being the operative word. Move over, let me help,” Stiles says, crouching beside him and untangling Derek’s hand. “This is the 360 Elite. Nice,” he says. 

Derek makes a grumpy noise and sits back on his heels. “I wanted to do it.”

“Order the food,” Stiles says, waving his hand at Derek, then poking his tongue out in concentration as he studies the mess. “Jesus, how did you get these so tangled? Were you knitting with them?”

“No,” Derek says sourly. “What kind of food do you want?”

Stiles waves his hand. “Surprise me. There’s really nothing I don’t like. And extra spring rolls!” he calls as Derek stands and makes his way to the phone. He checks to make sure Derek isn’t watching, wrinkles his nose, and gets the wires untangled pretty quickly after that.

By the time Derek gets back, he’s got the Xbox hooked up and the start screen on the TV.

“Okay,” Stiles says. “Is there a reason you wanted this set up? Did you just buy this?”

Derek looks cagey. “I bought it... recently. I haven’t had time to set it up. I thought we could talk and watch something on the movie thing it has.”

Stiles finally gets to raise an eyebrow. “Movie thing?”

Derek gestures at the TV and says, “Lydia says you can watch TV and movies. I have an account. Danny made it.”

“Right,” Stiles says. “But you haven’t logged in yet. Did Danny give you the username and password?”

Derek nods and pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket, handing it to Stiles.

 _This is Derek’s login for Netflix and Hulu. Derek doesn’t really know what those are. If you have any trouble, call me. --Danny_.

Stiles grins at the note. “Okay, no problem-o. We’ll get this working in no time.” He stands and grabs a controller, then lets himself fall backwards gracelessly onto the couch, listening to the impact and the hiss of air as he sinks into the cushions. Stiles wiggles, getting comfortable.

Derek gives him an amused look. “Make yourself at home.”

“I think I will,” Stiles says, grinning up him cheekily.

Derek’s eyes narrow, and he looks hungry.

Stiles hopes the Chinese gets here soon.

\-----

When Stiles said _Surprise me_ , Derek apparently took that to mean not with the type of food ordered but the sheer volume of it.

“Who are you feeding?” Stiles asks, taking in the enormous spread that now occupies Derek’s kitchen island and his countertops. “Are Mongols coming? Ravening hordes? Your weird pack of friends?”

“No,” Derek says, his expression dancing between scowling and sullen, like a kid who isn’t getting the attention he thinks he deserves. “Just eat whatever you want.”

When Stiles examines the food, he realizes it’s comprised almost exclusively of his favorite dishes. He casts a suspicious look in Derek’s direction, remembering the seemingly nonchalant discussion he had with Scott and Boyd during class about the best Chinese food.

“Thanks,” Stiles says. “Sweet and sour pork? Oh, man, that’s one of my favorites!”

“I know,” Derek grumbles, grabbing two plates from his cabinets and handing one to Stiles.

“Ha!” Stiles says. “And _how_ did you know? C’mon, admit it. Just say, ‘Because my goons told me.’ Please, just say it.”

Derek’s lips twitch. “Goons? I don’t have goons.”

Stiles hip-checks Derek, then moves around the kitchen island, loading his plate with food. “Liar. Fine, _minions_. Is minions better?” 

Derek doesn’t say anything, but when Stiles glances over, he catches Derek smiling. “Shut up and eat your food.” 

Derek wanders back to the couch and takes a seat right in the middle, which means that when Stiles reaches the couch, there really isn’t any place for him that doesn’t leave him sitting very close to Derek. He sits down on the couch with a sigh, balancing his plate on his knees as he clears a spot on the coffee table.

“What are we watching?” Stiles asks.

Derek hesitates and says, “Guest’s choice.”

“Sweet!” Stiles says. “Hey, do you have surround sound?”

“I... think so,” Derek says. 

Stiles laughs. “Danny set that up, too?”

Derek scowls at him, but it seems like a good natured sort of scowl. The kind that friends might give each other. Stiles settles deeper into the couch, inadvertently rolling closer to Derek.

He uses the controller to pull up the Netflix screen and sees that Derek already has a few things added to his Instant Queue. The first title he sees in the queue has him bouncing up in his seat.

“Awesome!” Stiles says. “I love wolves!”

He maneuvers the selection over with the controller and presses the button for more information. It’s a documentary called _Wolves in Paradise_ , all about ranchers in Montana trying to coexist with reintroduced gray wolves. Stiles thinks it sounds pretty cool.

“Wolves? Really?” Derek asks. When Stiles looks at him, Derek won’t meet his eyes.

“Yeah!” Stiles enthuses. It seems really important that Derek understands. “They’re amazing. I had this wolf toy when I was kid named Mr. Growly and he protected me from the monsters under my bed. Every time we had to do a report on animals in school, I totally picked wolves. And for Halloween, I was the Wolfman like four years straight.” His costume had been very realistic thanks to his Grandma Samantha. 

Stiles couldn’t really explain why he’d had such an affinity for wolves as a child; they just felt _right_ to him. His grandma had tried to encourage a love of black cats, but Stiles was adamant: wolves and the full moon had sung a melody to his heart.

“The Wolfman,” Derek says, his voice flat.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on. You can’t tell me haven’t heard of the Wolfman. Classic of early modern horror cinema? Lon Chaney, Jr.? Fantastic makeup? Aroooooo!” Stiles curls his fingers into mock claws.

Derek twitches.

“Yeah, yeah, I know, not the most ferocious howl you’ve ever heard,” Stiles says, shoving a forkful of sweet and sour pork into his mouth and kicking his feet up onto Derek’s coffee table.

“No,” Derek says, just barely smiling. “4 out of 10 fangs, at most.”

“Har har,” Stiles says. “You’re jealous because my howl is better than yours.”

“Yes,” Derek says. “I practice every day, but you have natural talent.”

Stiles barks out a laugh, pressing play on the screen and settling back down into the couch. He feels easy and loose, comfortable here next to Derek, even if Derek is still pressed a little too close.

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” he says.

“I hope so,” Derek replies, his hidden smirk now breaking into the open.

Stiles blinks, then gathers himself. The narrator’s voice fades to background noise. “So,” he says. “I don’t want this to get awkward, but I feel like I need to thank you profusely again for helping me out with Josh.”

Just like that, Derek’s smirk shrivels and disappears. “Yeah,” he grunts, his eyes moving to the TV.

“Seriously,” Stiles continues. “I know that this is beyond weird. We can agree on that, right? Neither of us expected to be here.”

Derek slants him a sideways look. “No,” he agrees. His lips twist into a strange smile that Stiles can’t really decipher: it’s dark and a little bleak. “Never expected to be here, helping you get with my ex.”

“Uh,” Stiles says. He gets the strangest feeling that he’s missing something. “Right. So, feel free to stop divulging things when it gets too weird, but can you tell me more about Josh? Because I really don’t want to screw this up. I mean, Josh is awesome, and I can’t believe he likes me.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, voice listless. He’s gone back to staring at the screen. 

“Look,” Stiles says. “I know I asked you once, but seriously: You’re not still into Josh, are you?”

Derek looks startled. “What? _No_ ,” he says, the sound guttural. He clears his throat. “No. He ended things, and I was fine with that. He wasn’t for me.”

“Right,” Stiles says, disbelieving. He shifts on the couch, turning toward Derek and inadvertently sinking closer. He gets a whiff of pine trees and leather and makes a mental note to ask Derek how he manages to smell like all that is man.

“How did you and Josh meet?” he asks.

Derek takes a few seconds to answer. His words are slow, like he has to think carefully about what he’s saying. “Josh and I used to... run in similar circles. And his family knows my family.”

“Yeah?”

Derek nods. Geez, it’s like pulling teeth with this guy.

“Is Josh’s family sickeningly rich, too?”

“Not sickeningly. His family is younger. Newer.”

Stiles sighs in relief. “So it won’t be a deal breaker that I live in a shitty apartment and my dad is a small town Sheriff?”

Derek perks up. “Your dad’s a Sheriff?”

Stiles laughs. “Oh, yeah. Trust me, it was really fun growing up under his overprotective watch. He liked to remind the one boyfriend I had that he was trained to use firearms and that he’d get away with covering up most major crimes. We didn’t date long.”

Derek gives Stiles a small, lopsided smile. “My family is... protective, too. We take care of what’s ours, but that means everyone is always sticking their snouts where they don’t belong.”

“Did Josh get along with them? Your family?”

Derek’s expression hardens so fast that Stiles is worried Derek’s face might get whiplash. “No,” Derek says, his voice clipped.

“Oh, uh. Okay. Was there--what was the problem?”

Derek has gone back to staring at the TV; his profile is guarded. “My parents have some old-fashioned views.”

“Yikes,” Stiles says. “I’m sorry. I mean, my dad took it really well when I came out to him, but he’d pretty much known since I was a kid because I used to make my G.I. Joes kiss each other and I told him I wanted to marry King Arthur when I was eight, but--uh. That sucks.”

As Stiles’ babbles, Derek slowly turns to face him, his eyes wider than usual. “What?” he says. 

Stiles takes a deep breath. “Just--I know that we don’t know each other that well, but you seem like a good guy--your occasionally intense vibe aside--and if you want to talk to somebody...” Stiles trails off. “Maybe your parents will come around.”

“Maybe my parents will--” Derek starts, “Oh. _Oh_. No, my parents are fine with my--they’re fine with it.”

Okay, Stiles is a little confused now, but he doesn’t want to pry. He _shouldn’t_ pry.

“Then why didn’t they get along with Josh?”

Doesn’t mean he _won’t_ pry. He wants to get to the point where he can introduce Josh to his dad, and if he can avoid some potential parental pitfalls, he will.

Derek rubs tiredly at his jaw. “My parents think...” He stops and seems to collect himself. “They think that there’s one... person. For everyone. A perfect match. They don’t approve of dating around. I used to think they were full of crap, that you only had to find another person with... a similar set of values that you were compatible with, but--”

This time when he stops, he shoots Stiles a nervous glance. “Well. I don’t think that anymore.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, still confused. No dating around? _Set of values_? Maybe Derek and his family were super religious. That could explain the whole close knit, group marriage thing Derek had going on with his friends. Wait--was he _Mormon_? Was there a casual way to ask if someone was Mormon? Was that rude? 

“Like, uh... soulmates?” Stiles asks. 

Frustration pinches Derek’s eyes. “No. Yes. It’s hard to explain.” 

Stiles mouth drops open, a delighted laugh bubbling out. “Wait a minute--I had the leather jacket thing all wrong! I thought this was _Rebel Without a Cause_ but it’s really _Grease_ , isn’t it?”

“What?”

“Dude, you’re totally a romantic! No wonder you agreed to help me with Josh. It’s cool, your secret is safe.”

“Stiles,” Derek says. 

“No, no,” Stiles continues, already on a roll, self-preservation but a fleeting glimmer in the distance. “I get it! You’re waiting for your Sandra Dee! Seriously, man, that leather jacket is misleading.”

Derek’s eyebrows snap down like caterpillars on the attack. “ _Stiles_ ,” he growls.

Stiles holds up his hands. “No judgement here! This is a judge free zone. My parents were kind of like that. My Dad always said my Mom was one of a kind. He says I’m just like her.”

“How can you be just like her if she’s one of a kind?” Derek says, looking smug. He’s clearly still smarting from Stiles calling him a romantic; Derek must spell _romantic_ as a four-letter word. 

“Because she’s dead,” Stiles replies, trying too hard to make his voice light.

Derek’s face blanches. His hand twitches like he wants to reach out, and his whole body vibrates with instant tension. “I didn’t--”

Stiles waves his stuttering apology away. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, over-bright. “She’s been gone awhile.” That doesn’t mean the hurt is gone, it’s just different: it’s not a freshly broken bone, it’s the ache from wet weather.

Derek frowns down at his hands clenched in his lap, and his throat works once, twice, before he says, “I’m sorry.” 

Stiles aims for a chuckle but misses. “Seriously, it’s okay,” he says, shrugging. He can hear the narrator droning on about wolf packs in the background, and he blinks rapidly. 

“What was she like?” Derek asks. His hands move restlessly, rubbing at his thighs and alighting on the couch, never settling. His eyes are locked on Stiles.

Stiles, in contrast, has his hands firmly clasped in his lap. He wants to look away from Derek but he can’t; they’re staring at each other like it’s the world championship for who blinks first.

“She was... she was great. She was magic,” Stiles says, and he’s not even exaggerating. “She used to bake the most amazing cookies, you don’t even know. Man, I miss her cookies.”

“We could bake cookies,” Derek blurts, then looks like he wants to brain himself with the Xbox controller.

Stiles blinks. “We could bake. Cookies.”

“Yes,” Derek grits out. “I have... stuff. In the kitchen. Flour. Other things. I don’t know, Isaac and Jackson usually shop for me.”

Stiles is tempted to ask Derek if that’s safe. He’s having a hard time picturing Jackson and Isaac--no, that’s a lie. He can definitely picture Isaac pushing a shopping cart as Jackson directs him what to get. In Stiles’ mind, Jackson is wearing a scarf and a beret.

He thinks of asking Derek to pinch him, just to make sure he isn’t dreaming or that he hasn’t crossed over into an alternate dimension. Did pinching work for that? Maybe that required a level-up to slapping.

“Do... _you_ want to bake cookies?” Stiles asks slowly.

Derek closes his eyes like a man praying before battle. When he opens his eyes, they glint with determination. Men march to the gallows with an expression like that.

“Yes,” Derek says. “I would love to bake cookies.”

“More or less than you’d like to step on a rusty nail?”

Derek straightens in his seat. “Stiles,” he says. “Please bake cookies with me.”

Stiles shakes off the feeling that this is some sort of proposal. No one takes cookies that seriously. 

“Uh, sure. What kind?”

“Kind?”

“Please tell me you are aware there is more than one type of cookie in the world. Oh no, you’re a sugar cookie guy, aren’t you? You like plain, boring sugar cookies.”

“Gingersnaps,” Derek says, like he’s spilling state secrets.

“You _monster_ ,” Stiles replies.

Derek gives him a toothy grin. He seems relieved that Stiles has taken his weird peace offering. That’ll last until he sees Stiles try to mix batter.

\----


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S FINALLY DONE. I am so sorry it took me this long to finish. I will accept either rotten fruit or accolades.

\----

The first batch of cookies burns because Stiles is busy kicking Derek's ass at Halo. Derek tries to play using strategy and Stiles gleefully button mashes, so Derek really never stood a chance.

Derek heaves a disgusted sigh and throws down the controller. "This game is broken."

"Broken? This game is not broken, your gracious loser is broken. You haven't even played this game before today, you can't expect to be good at it on the first try."

"I've played it," Derek says sulkily.

"Really?" Stiles asks, raising an eyebrow. "Because I had to take the shrink wrap off the case."

"What's that smell?" Derek asks instead of answering, and three seconds later a high-pitched alarm blares to life in the kitchen.

"Shit, the cookies!" Stiles says, scrambling up from his cross-legged position on the floor. "Go, go, there may still be time to save the poor bastards!"

Derek beats Stiles into the kitchen and wrenches the oven door open as black smoke billows out. Stiles turns his head and coughs, his eyes watering, as Derek reaches inside and grabs the tray.

With his _bare hands_.

"What is wrong with you!" Stiles yelps.

Derek lets the tray clatter to the counter and Stiles shoots forward, seizing Derek's hands to inspect the damage.

The cookies are a charred mess, and Stiles expects to see that Derek's hands have fared similarly; the smell of burnt flesh and sugar is thick and gagging in the air.

He turns Derek's hands palms-up, getting ready to wince at the damage, but Derek's hands are completely unmarred. They're barely even pink from the heat.

"What?" he says, staring. Derek's hands are warm and slightly moist in his grasp.

"I'm fine," Derek says. "I didn't touch the pan for long."

"I smelled cooked meat," Stiles says.

Derek wrinkles his nose. "Burnt gingersnaps,” he corrects.

"No, but--" Stiles starts to say.

Derek stares expectantly. Stiles realizes he's still pretty much holding Derek's hands and drops them quickly, saying, "Uh, okay. I'm glad you didn't get burned. These cookies, on the other hand, were not so lucky."

Derek is giving the blackened carcasses a more mournful expression than Stiles feels the situation warrants: he looks like he failed in his duty to provide for his family or something, not screwed up a batch of cookies. "No," Derek says. "I ruined them."

"Cookie baking is a two-way street, my friend," Stiles says, poking Derek's shoulder. "I wasn't paying attention either."

"You're not mad?" Derek asks.

"... No?" Stiles replies. "Why would I be? They're just cookies, dude. And they were the gingersnaps. I don't even like those."

"Oh," Derek says.

"Seriously," Stiles says, laughing as he gestures to the tray. "Who gets mad over cookies?"

"Some people," Derek says darkly, like he's remembering a tragic baking incident from his past. Stiles wonders about Derek sometimes.

"Not this people," Stiles replies. "We can always make more. I vote chocolate chip. Do you have milk? We need milk to fully complement the warm cookie and melting chocolate that's in our future."

"I can make a run to the store," Derek says. "If you want to get started with the dough."

"Or," Stiles says, putting his hand on Derek's firm shoulder, "and go with me here: we can get some of that premade cookie dough from the store and save everyone a lot of embarrassment. And by everyone, I mostly mean you, big guy."

Derek's eyes are warm as he looks at Stiles. "I'm not the one who open the flour bag wrong."

"No one appreciates my ghost impression," Stiles laments. He knows he still has flour in his hair.

“All right,” Derek says. “We can take my car.”

Derek’s car turns out to be just as much of a sexy beast as its owner: a shiny, black Camaro with dangerous curves and sweet rims.

“Whoa,” Stiles says. He should have expected something like this. Derek is sex on wheels; it only makes sense that he drives sex on wheels, too.

Derek smirks at him. “Get in.”

Stiles quickly slides into the car, running his hands over the dashboard and the leather seats.

“Seatbelt,” Derek says immediately.

“Seriously? The store is like five minutes away.”

“Seatbelt,” Derek repeats firmly. When Stiles takes too long to comply, he reaches over, grabs the strap, and buckles Stiles in himself. He smoothes a hand over Stiles’ shirt and adjusts the strap so it lies flat.

Stiles sits frozen, trying desperately to ignore how nice Derek smells, how close and warm he is, and how the little oven timer in Stiles’ pants has just gone _Ding_.

“There,” Derek says, leaning back with a nod and a satisfied expression.

Stiles swallows as he slowly regains some equilibrium. His shoulder tingles where Derek’s hand brushed it, and he concentrates really hard on not making flowers bloom on the floorboards. “You’re really safety conscious.”

Derek gives him an intense look. “Can’t be too careful.”

“Precious cargo,” Stiles jokes.

“Yeah,” Derek says, putting the car in drive and pulling out of the parking lot.

Stiles blushes and fixes his gaze in his lap. Down, boy, he urges silently. It doesn’t help that the car smells strongly of Derek’s aftershave and--weirdly--a little bit like dog.

Derek appears content with the silence, but silence makes Stiles itch.

“How are your classes?” he asks. “You’re doing architecture, right?”

Derek glances at him, a lazy smile on his face. His nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath. Stiles has pretty much stopped finding that weird. “Yeah.”

“That’s cool. You like it? I mean, hopefully you like it, since you’re studying it. Your apartment is awesome, so you’ve clearly got talent.”

“You think so?” Derek asks. With any other person, Stiles would have said Derek’s expression was shy.

“Totally, dude,” Stiles says, and thinks to himself, _Talented, hot, gruff but kind, bakes terrible cookies. Why the hell did Josh break up with him?_

There’s got to be a reason, and it can’t be that Derek snores. Derek could sing My Heart Will Go On at the top of his lungs every night while he slept and Stiles still wouldn’t kick him out of bed. In fact, Stiles would chain him to the bed, if that kind of sexual kidnapping were not frowned upon.

It starts a niggle of doubt in his mind. Seriously, why did Josh and Derek break up? Derek said Josh didn’t get along with his family, but if it were Stiles, he would have tried everything up to and including candygrams to get Derek’s family to like him.

He abruptly feels disloyal. He’s trying to get with Josh, not Derek. He has a date with Josh on Friday. Josh is cute. Josh likes Stiles. If he repeats this to himself enough, he may be able to block out the sight of Derek’s biceps and how his arms would probably be great for cuddling.

Stiles shakes his head. What is he even thinking? Derek is so far out of Stiles’ league that Derek might as well be playing baseball on Mars.

Stiles slumps down in his seat. _Focus, Stilinski_.

It doesn’t help that Derek unbuckles his seatbelt when they get to Costco and then eels around the car, lightning fast, to open Stiles’ door.

“It sticks,” is all Derek says to Stiles’ incredulous stare.

Then Derek lets Stiles push the shopping cart, and he insists on paying, even though Stiles filled the cart with eight different kinds of cookie dough.

“At least let me get the milk,” Stiles says. “C’mon, I’m feeling like my masculinity is in question.”

Derek’s eyes do a slow slide down Stiles’ body. “It’s not in question,” he says, and when Stiles is busy sputtering and blushing, Derek sneaks the milk onto the conveyor belt and hands the cashier his card.

“Man,” Stiles grumbles as they load their groceries into a box. They’re still close enough to the card reader that Stiles thinks about doing a quick nose crinkle and adjusting some electronic data. “You gotta let me do something.”

“Your job is to make sure they don’t burn this time,” Derek says as they head back to the car. He’s walking close again, his shoulder brushing against Stiles’ shoulder. He refused to let Stiles carry anything, and his muscles are bunching nicely as he grips the box. Stiles isn’t about to complain at the free show.

“Fine,” Stiles concedes with ill grace. “But I get to decide which cookies we make first.”

“Of course,” Derek says, and opens Stiles’ door for him. The bastard.

They wind up making four batches of cookies that night, and Stiles’ stomach hurts from a combination of cookies, milk, and laughter.

When he gets home that night, he gets out his Grandma’s old spellbook. The worn leather cover feels warm under his fingers as he traces the stylized S on the front.

He wishes his mom or Grandma Samantha were here. They’d both fallen in love with mortals. They’d know what to tell him.

He clutches the book to his chest and falls back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. Maybe he’s being greedy. Josh is great. Josh is really great. He’s so great that Stiles shouldn’t even be thinking about Derek or the way he smiled or how he was a terrible loser who laughed at Stiles’ milk mustache.

Stiles stares at the ceiling for a long time. The spellbook hums against his skin.

Derek is helping him woo Josh because, underneath the grumpy exterior, he’s apparently a good guy who has taken pity on poor, clueless Stiles. He should be grateful for Derek’s help.

He sighs and turns over in his bed, pummeling his pillow to get it in the right shape. Who is he kidding, he’d give anything to be with Derek instead, which makes him the worst kind of asshole. A greedy asshole, and not the fun kind.

He sighs again. His mom always told him true love was never easy. He just didn’t think true love was supposed to be impossible.

\----

After a sleepless night, Stiles gets to school the next morning and can safely say that he has distinguished a pattern.

“Hey, guys. Long time no see, fancy meeting you here, etcetera,” he says as he climbs out of his jeep to greet the waiting huddle.

“Hi, Stiles,” Isaac replies, stepping forward to grab Stiles’ backpack from his hands. Then he turns and begins walking towards Stiles’ first lecture hall.

“Uh--”

“Not fair,” Erica says, jabbing Isaac’s side as she falls into step beside him. “I told you I called dibs.”

“You can do it after his study period. He always gets those huge-ass books from the library. It’ll be heavier,” Boyd says.

“Hello?” Stiles tries.

“Fine,” Erica says, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

“What about me?” Scott asks.

The group moves toward the school entrance, and Stiles follows them, feeling slightly lost. “Guys?” he tries again.

“Buy him lunch,” Lydia says, like Scott is being particularly dense. “You can get him more pudding cups.”

“Definitely _no more pudding cups_ ,” Stiles says adamantly, determined not to suffer another bout of pudding-induced nausea during his afternoon classes.

The group stops. Scott’s eyes go big and wet. “You don’t like them anymore?”

“No, I--I mean, yes, I like them, just not--” Stiles flounders. They’re all giving him a look like he’s smacked them with a rolled up newspaper.

“I’m watching my figure,” he finishes weakly.

He receives a chorus of snorts and scoffs. “Please,” Lydia says, looking him up and down. “Danny, tell him he’s pretty.”

“You’re pretty,” Danny says obediently. His smile is the only non-smirky one, and Stiles revises his earlier assessment: Danny is totally his favorite.

"Yeah, yeah," Stiles says to cover his blush. "Keep trying to butter me up."

"Oh, we're not the ones trying to butter you up," Erica says and huffs when Lydia jabs her in the side.

Stiles raises an eyebrow, but Scott interrupts, clapping Stiles on the shoulder and grinning his bouncy grin. "How did last night go with Derek?"

"Fine..." Stiles says slowly.

"Awesome," Scott nods his head encouragingly.

Stiles feels compelled to continue. "We talked for a while, played some video games, baked some cookies. You know how it is."

Scott's smile freezes and the rest of the group stops in their tracks. Isaac drops Stiles’ backpack with a thud.

"I'm sorry," Allison says, placing a hand on Scott's forearm, like she's not sure whether she's comforting Scott or herself. "Did you say you and Derek baked cookies?"

"And played video games?" Danny asks, looking professionally affronted.

"Yeah," Stiles replies, glancing at each of them. "Derek is pretty cool. You're his friends, you know this."

The group exchanges very loaded glances with one another.

"Of course," Lydia says breezily, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "We hang out with Derek all the time, but he doesn't normally do that sort of thing with strangers."

"Right," Stiles says, feeling oddly hurt. He doesn’t think he and Derek are strangers. Sure, he's only known Derek for a few days, but he likes to think that they're becoming friends: they've eaten Chinese food and burped in each others' presence; they're practically blood brothers. They’ve even baked together. Baking changes a man.

Allison gives Lydia a look and says, "Derek must feel very comfortable with you."

"I guess," Stiles replies. “He’s still a freaking cookie hog. I was gonna bring you guys some, but he wolfed them down.”

Scott coughs loudly, covering a laugh. “I’m sure he did. Thanks for thinking of us, Stiles.”

“Well, yeah,” Stiles says, and hopes he doesn’t sound as nervous as he feels when he adds, “What are friends for?”

Scott beams at him and claps him on the shoulder. “Already looking out for us. You’re gonna be a great addition to the p--oof!”

“... the poof?” Stiles asks, and looks over to see Scott rubbing his side as Isaac glares at him pointedly.

“Group,” Scott says, glaring at Isaac in return.

“Riiiight,” Stiles says. They stop in front of the classroom door and everyone makes their goodbyes. It doesn’t escape Stiles’ notice that each person makes sure to touch him before they leave: Jackson socks him on the shoulder, Lydia pats his cheek, Allison touches his arm. Boyd and Danny pat him on the back, and Erica squeezes his ass. It’s almost like they’re reassuring themselves of something, though Stiles has no idea what.

“Ready, dude?” he asks, turning to Scott. “I think we have a pop quiz today on German fairytales.”

“Do you think the subject will be… _Grimm_?” Scott intones seriously.

“This is why you’re my favorite,” Stiles says, laughing, and slings an arm around Scott’s shoulders.

Scott grins. “Don’t let Derek hear you say that.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. Like Derek cares.

\----

His friends act stranger as the day wears on, which is an achievement considering the overarching oddness that has characterized this entire week.

"Tomorrow’s the big night, huh?" Scott asks at lunch, slapping Stiles on the back harder than usual, like he's distracted and forgetting to hold back his strength.

"Yep," Stiles says, grinning hugely. He tries to muster up the same enthusiasm he’d felt on Monday, but an image of Derek, smiling with a smudge of chocolate on his cheek, rises in his mind’s eye.

Stupid mind’s eye.

"That's... great," Scott says. His smile seems a little stiff. "Really, that's great. You and Josh."

"Uh, yeah?" Stiles says, giving Scott a look. He wonders if Scott is worried that Josh will break Stiles’ heart, too. He’s not as worried about that as he used to be, and he doesn’t want to examine the reason why too closely.

"Just him. Josh. He's the only one you've got your sights set on. No one else."

Stiles gives Scott a furrowed look, racking his brain. It’s not exactly like the dudes are beating down his door. The only beating happening in Stiles’ life involves late nights, KY, and his left hand. "Who else is there?"

Lydia makes an agitated noise in the back of her throat. “This is becoming tedious. I don’t see why Derek doesn’t just--”

“Lydia,” Boyd says mildly.

Lydia subsides with eyeroll. “I’m going on record that this is ludicrous.”

“Me having a date is ludicrous?” Stiles asks. “Thanks a lot. Your boss is going to a lot of trouble to help me out. I thought you’d be more supportive.”

Lydia narrows her eyes. “I take it back. You two deserve each other.” She stands with her tray and flips her hair over her shoulder. “And I checked your Latin work. All your conjugations are wrong.”

She flounces off.

“I hate her,” Stiles says. “Why is she both brilliant and beautiful. We might need to be arch enemies.”

“Think this through, Stiles,” Scott says, putting a hand on his shoulder. “If she’s your arch enemy, that means her attention is focused on you. Do you really want that?”

Stiles has only known Lydia for three days, and she already terrifies him.

Besides, the only person whose attention he wants is Derek, and Derek’s attention isn’t going to last beyond this Friday.

“You’re right,” he says morosely. More and more, he’s coming to dread this Friday. He likes Josh--he does--but it’s nothing like the feelings that have blossomed for Derek.

“There, there, buddy,” Scott says. “Want another pudding cup?”

Stiles groans and puts his head on the table.

The rest of lunch is fairly uneventful, though Stiles has to decline four more pudding cups. At the rate everyone is trying to feed him, he’ll have to buy new pants before the date. Maybe Derek thinks he needs fattening up and he’s instructed his posse to take care of it.

The others have already gone with promises to meet up at the end of the day, except for Boyd and Scott, who have Superstition and Persecution in the Dark Ages with Stiles next.

He’s in the middle of asking them about their latest reading assignment--torture of witches, fun for the whole family!--when they both get a strange look on their faces, their bodies suddenly poised like hounds on the hunt.

Then they're off like a shot, Scott shouting, "Be right back! Stay here, Stiles, we'll walk you to class!"

Stiles hangs out for about ten minutes, but they don't come back, and if he waits much longer, he'll be late. He's already waited too long to head to class the normal way, so he glances around one more time, heads out the door, and takes a shortcut across campus.

He supposes he should enjoy the reprieve from his protective detail, and he's annoyed with himself that he kind of misses it. Maybe Scott and Boyd got tired of him. It wouldn’t be the first time he was ditched. Most people don’t stick around long enough for Stiles to share his secrets. That’s always been part of the problem.

The sky is overcast and the air smells wet; leaves swirl across the sidewalk, making him shiver and tug his sleeves over his fingers as he ducks his head against the wind.

This part of campus is quieter and more secluded. Stiles can almost pretend he’s alone, which is something of a novelty after the constant supervision of the last few days. He takes a deep breath, feeling the cold air hit his lungs.

He hears a twig snap in the quiet and turns around just as Josh emerges from between two buildings.

“Stiles,” Josh says. His eyes seem eerily blue against the backdrop of grey sky.

“Josh, hey!” Stiles says, changing direction. He trots over to Josh, who strolls to meet him. Josh’s movements are slow and calculated, displaying a lethal grace that reminds him of Derek.

“Hey,” Josh says, his voice distant. His eyes flick to a point beyond Stiles’ shoulder like he’s already lost interest in the conversation.

“What’s--uh, what’s up?” Stiles tries. He wraps his arms around his waist, trying to ward of the chill in the air and in Josh’s expression.

Josh’s focus moves back to Stiles’ face, and he smiles blandly. “Not much.”

Stiles gives a short laugh, even though nothing funny has been said, and wants to kick himself for _medaling_ in the Awkward Olympics. “Right. Yeah, me either. You headed to class?”

Josh lifts the textbook and notebook he’s carrying in a clear ‘duh’ gesture. He moves both items under his arm and pushes his glasses up his nose. It’s a habit that Stiles has always found cute, but now, seeing Josh do it, Stiles’ stomach clenches in something that feels like rejection. Oh please, don’t let Josh change his mind.

“You okay?” Stiles asks quickly. Instinct makes him take a step forward in an attempt to get closer before his brain tells him that maybe Josh needs space and he quickly steps back. The end result is Stiles’ wobbling in place like a dork.

Josh lifts both eyebrows. “I’m fine,” he says. “It’s just...” He trails off, giving Stiles a hesitant look.

“Yeah?”

Josh stands straighter. “It’s just that you never called last night.”

_Shit_ , Stiles thinks. He’d been so distracted by Derek that he’d forgotten about his promise to call. He can’t very well plead ‘by reason of temporary baking.’

“Dude, I am _so sorry_ ,” Stiles babbles. “My phone had this freak accident and it’s broken so I couldn’t have called you even if I’d wanted to. Which I _did_ , I obviously did!”

The warmth returns to Josh’s expression. “An accident, huh?”

“Yes!” Stiles says, babble mode now fully engaged. “Like, this weird puncture thing happened to it, there’s a big hole in the back and the phone died. Boyd said he’d seen it happen before, and I keep a lot of pens in my backpack, so that must’ve been how it happened. I’m supposed to take it in this afternoon and see if I can switch the SIM card and or get it replaced or--this is totally irrelevant, sorry. Uh.”

Josh laughs. He has great teeth, they’re white but not perfectly straight. Stiles has always thought Josh’s canines looked endearingly crooked.

"Stiles!"

Stiles turns to see Scott and Boyd loping toward him, the lines of their bodies tensed for a fight. Stiles refrains from rolling his eyes. He doesn't know how they found him so fast. It's like he has a tracking beacon in his sneakers.

"Hey guys!" Stiles waves over his shoulder, then turns back to Josh.

Josh is staring past him to Scott and Boyd, his eyes narrowed.

"Hey!" Scott pants, pulling up next to Stiles. He rests a hand on Stiles' shoulder, taking a few breaths. "Sorry, dude. We had something to take care of. Turned out to be a false alarm."

"Yeah," Boyd says, staring intently at Josh.

"Yeah?" Stiles says. Scott and Boyd are on either side of him, radiating heat. It's kind of nice, with the chill in the air.

Josh makes a noise of polite interest. "I hope it wasn't anything too serious."

"Nah," Scott says, grinning lazily and looping his arm over Stiles' shoulders. "Nothing we couldn't handle. Just some idiot playing a trick."

Okay, Stiles knows there's a history here, but it must have been a pretty bad breakup between Josh and Derek, judging by the tension in the air. Stiles is glad to know Derek has such loyal friends, and he's frankly both disturbed and flattered that they seem to be equally invested in him, but the staring match of doom that's happening right now is making Stiles incredibly uncomfortable.

"That's good. Maybe we should, uh, head to class?"

"Good idea," Boyd says. "We'll walk you."

Yes, that wasn't really a surprise.

"Sure," Stiles says easily, bumping his shoulder against Boyd's chest. Boyd relaxes slightly.

"Right," Josh says. His smile looks brittle. "How about I call you tonight? Do you think you'll have your phone situation taken care of by then?"

"Totally," Stiles says, nodding enthusiastically.

"Isn't Derek coming by your place tonight?" Scott asks, his eyes not leaving Josh's face.

"Dude! Ix-nay on the erek-Day!" Stiles hisses, then looks at Josh. "I mean, yes, he is, but only for a little bit. We're just gonna, uh, play some videogames for a while."

"If you're busy..." Josh starts.

"No, no!" Stiles blurts. "Call me, maybe?"

Josh laughs like he finds Stiles charming despite himself. "All right," he says. "We can talk about the homework for Meckler's class. I was at the library earlier trying to find some sources for the minotaur paper, but I didn't have much luck."

"No problem," Stiles says, waggling his eyebrows. "I am a source master. You might even say I am a _source_ rer."

No one needs to know how very close that is to the truth.

“All right,” Josh says. He makes a move forward like he’s going to hug Stiles, and Boyd and Scott press closer, Scott’s hand clamping down harder on Stiles’ shoulder.

“Later, Dawkins,” Boyd says.

“Later,” Josh says, with an unhappy smile. The smile changes to something softer when he looks at Stiles. “Talk to you tonight.”

“Yeah, totally!” Stiles enthuses.

As soon as Josh is out of earshot, Stiles gives Boyd and Scott a double elbow jab that makes them grunt. “What the heck!” he says. “Thanks for protecting my virtue-- _not_. Why the cockblock?”

“What?” Scott asks innocently. “That was all perfectly friendly, Stiles.”

Boyd walks a step or two behind them, typing out a text on his phone, his brows drawn down in concentration.

"No, you’re right, that wasn't awkward at all," Stiles says, nudging Scott pointedly.

Scott coughs, shaking his head. "Did Derek tell you what went down with him and Josh?"

"Yeah," Stiles says. "I mean, mostly. He didn't go into detail, but he said Josh broke up with him."

“Yeah,” Scott says, frowning. He doesn’t really have a face made for that kind of expression, but he gives a good try. “Josh was okay at first, but it didn’t take us--or Derek--very long to realize that Josh stayed with Derek because Derek has… influence.”

Stiles feels the need to defend him. “That doesn’t sound like Josh.”

Scott hesitates. “I don’t know how he is with you, Stiles, but Josh was with Derek because he had power. Josh likes power.”

“Well, there you go,” Stiles says. “I don’t have any power except the power of observation.”

_No powers that anyone knows of_ , Stiles thinks worriedly.

“Maybe you misinterpreted it,” he says.

Scott and Boyd exchange a look. “Maybe,” Scott says. “I mean, like you said, he’s with you, and you’re a wimp.” He smiles to show he’s teasing, but it still stings.

“He’s on the rebound and has poor judgement,” Stiles says, trying to keep his voice light. “Score for me!”

“He’s lucky that you like him,” Boyd says in his quiet way. “You’re a good guy. You deserve someone who really appreciates you. Maybe someone older with dark hair--”

“What?”

“--and if Dawkins hurts you, we’ll hurt him,” Boyd finishes without missing a beat.

Stiles pauses. “Emotionally. You mean emotionally, right?”

Scott and Boyd both grin. Boyd cracks his knuckles, which is not helpful at all.

\----

At the end of the day, Stiles heads to the parking lot with Scott and the others trailing behind him like leatherclad ducklings.

He stops short when he sees Derek’s Camaro parked next to his Jeep. Derek’s leaning against the Jeep’s door with his arms crossed, wearing dark sunglasses that hide his eyes.

“Stiles,” he says.

Stiles turns to the others, but finds himself standing alone. It seems the rest of the group veered off when they spotted Derek, which Stiles finds a little odd.

“Hey, cookie monster,” Stiles says, hitching his backpack higher. “What’s up?”

Derek straightens and pushes away from the Jeep, sauntering over to Stiles. He takes Stiles’ backpack from his shoulder like it weighs nothing and then walks toward the Camaro.

“Excuse you!” Stiles says, hurrying after him.

“Come on,” Derek says. “Get in. We’re going to get you a new phone.”

“I’ve got it covered, thanks,” Stiles says crossly. “I’m still under warranty. Dude, give me that back.”

Derek opens the passenger door and throws Stiles’ backpack inside. “Get in,” he says again, holding the door open.

“You can’t just hijack a man’s backpack!”

“Stiles,” Derek says. He takes his sunglasses off and hooks them on his shirt collar. The sun hits his face and those goofy brows cast his eyes in shadow.

Stiles stares at Derek for a few seconds, and Derek stares back. Stiles feels heat creep up the back of his neck. Something about the look Derek is giving him makes him self-conscious. He tugs at the hem of his X-Men t-shirt, feeling like the fabric is too thin.

“Well?” Derek says, drumming his fingers on the doorframe. “I haven’t got all day.”

“Ugh, fine,” Stiles says, shoving Derek out of the way as he clambers inside. “This is not me giving in, by the way. It’s hot out and your car has better air conditioning than my Jeep.”

Derek doesn’t say anything, but his smug smile does enough talking on its own. He rounds the front of the car and slips into the driver’s seat. “Don’t forget to buckle up,” he says, putting his sunglasses back on and giving Stiles a wide grin that ramps up his nerves.

“Yes, fine!” Stiles says hurriedly, scrabbling at the seatbelt. “I’ve got it, no assistance required.” He tells himself it’s wishful thinking and Derek absolutely does not look disappointed.

“Okay, squire,” Stiles says. “Take me to the nearest T-Mobile, and be speedy about it.”

Derek looks over at him and arches an eyebrow above the sunglasses. “Really, Stiles?”

Stiles sinks further into the seat. “Drive on,” he says imperiously.

If his nose twitches a couple of times so that they hit every red light, no one needs to know but him. He’ll take every extra second with Derek that he can get.

When they get to the T-Mobile store, there’s a pretty long line, so he and Derek have to sign in and hang around until someone’s available to talk to them.

“What kind of phone do you have?” Stiles asks Derek as they browse the available models on the wall.

Derek shrugs, looking uncomfortable. “I don’t know. Danny bought our phones.”

Stiles snorts. He’s not surprised.

“What,” Derek says, like he’s daring Stiles to say something.

Stiles puts his hands up. “Nothing, dude. Let me guess: you guys are all on some sort of incestuous family plan.”

Derek looks shifty. “Sort of.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow, about to question Derek, when a young saleswoman calls them over.

“Hi, Mr. Stilinski!” she bubbles at him. Stiles winces. He’s feels about a million years old when people call him that. Especially when those people look like they’re barely out of high school.

“How can we help you today?” She has bright blonde hair and her nametag says _Kaylee_.

“My phone got damaged,” Stiles says, holding it out to her.

She takes it from him; their hands brush, and she smiles at him. Next to him, Derek gives a quiet growl.

Kaylee examines the puncture mark at the back. “That’s funny,” she says, looking up at Stiles with a sweet smile. “It went right through your case. I don’t think I’ve seen that happen before.”

“Me either,” Stiles says, “but one of my friends said he’s seen something similar. Could I get a replacement? And could we see if my SIM card is damaged? I hate to lose everything on my phone. I’ve got a lot of numbers in there.”

“Including mine,” Derek says significantly, staring at the girl.

The girl goes red and looks between them. “Of course,” she says quickly. “It doesn’t look like it was damaged. Are you still under warranty?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Stiles says. “Can I get the same model?

“Sure, I’ll go check--”

“Good,” Derek says. “Bye. Hurry back.”

Kaylee stutters a second longer, clutching the phone, and skitters to the back room

“Who taught you how to communicate?” Stiles asks. “You’re seriously awful at it.”

“We communicate just fine,” Derek says, baring his teeth in smile.

“Only because it appears I speak fluent asshole,” Stiles mutters.

The tips of Derek’s ears go red, but before he can say anything, Kaylee reappears with replacement phone. She unboxes it quickly and speeds through the process, casting furtive looks in Derek’s direction.

Stiles gets his number transferred to the new phone, and he speeds through the checkout line, which might have something to do with Derek glaring menacingly and the way people suddenly decide they’re not ready to make their purchases yet.

“Very nice,” Stiles says absently, patting Derek on the chest as he signs receipts for the nervous-looking cashier, whose nametag says _Brian_ and whose expression says _mute terror_.

Stiles grins, looking up. “I should take you with me more often to intimidate people.”

Derek grabs Stiles’ hand before the fourth pat can land, and growls, “You haven’t seen intimidating.”

“It doesn’t work on _me_ anymore,” Stiles says, letting his grin widen. “That ship sailed when I saw you baking cookies in an apron.”

The cashier chokes quietly.

“I did not wear an apron,” Derek glowers.

“That’s not what I told your friends,” Stiles says, blinking innocently.

“Stiles--” Derek growls.

“All set!” the cashier squeaks, his eyes wide.

“Thanks,” Stiles says. They head out of the store and make their way back to the Camaro. “Not that I don’t appreciate the backup, but I really could have done this on my own.”

Derek shrugs. “I thought we could go to dinner afterward.”

Stiles almost stumbles. “Dinner?”

“Sure,” Derek says. He avoids Stiles eyes. “You’re going out with Josh tomorrow. I figured we could do a trial run.”

“Good plan,” Stiles says faintly and doesn’t even protest when Derek opens the car door for him.

Derek clears his throat after he gets inside and starts the car. “Where are you and Josh going tomorrow?”

“I dunno. Josh said Mexican.”

Derek grunts. “He’ll take you to Cantina Laredo.”

“Shit, that place is nice. That’s the kind of restaurant you put out after.”

Derek’s grip on the steering wheel goes white-knuckled. “Maybe you should take it slow.”

“Maybe,” Stiles says doubtfully. He doesn’t have much going on for him, but he knows he gives blowjobs that can make men see stars. One time literally, when Stiles forgot himself and sneezed right in the middle. Sometimes he hates his nose thing.

“Josh is a romantic,” Derek says. He’s looking shifty again. “You should wait a few dates before anything physical. He’ll like that.”

“Right,” Stiles says. “Well, you’re the expert. We’re not going to Cantina Laredo now, are we? Maybe something a little less…”

“Yuppy?” Derek offers with a small smile. “I know a place that’s pretty good. It’s near your apartment.”

“Sweet,” Stiles says. “If you wanna drop me back at campus, I can grab my Jeep and follow you there.”

His heartbeat is rabbiting in his chest at the prospect of having dinner with Derek. He knows it’s for his benefit, so he can woo Josh, but all he can think about is that he’ll get to sit across from Derek and him put things in his mouth. The inside of the car suddenly seems stifling.

“Is the air on?” Stiles asks, tugging at his shirt collar. Derek looks a little pink, too.

“Yeah,” Derek says, reaching up to adjust the air so that it blows on Stiles.

They’re both quiet as Derek drives Stiles back to campus.

“What is with these lights?” Derek grumbles, breaking the silence when they’re halfway there, as he glares at the sixth red traffic signal.

Stiles smothers his grin behind his hand.

\----

Stiles gets in his Jeep and follows Derek to a little hole-in-the-wall called Azteca that Stiles must have driven by a hundred times without noticing. When Stiles asks how he found the place, Derek gives him a sly grin and says, “I followed my nose.”

Inside the restaurant, the lighting is dim, the service fast, and the enchiladas enormous. Stiles orders a margarita and it comes out in a glass bowl bigger than his head.

“You might need to pour me into bed tonight,” Stiles says, his eyes on the prize.

Derek chokes on his beer. “I’ll make sure to cut you off before things get that bad.”

“Spoilsport,” Stiles says.

They tuck into their food, which is delicious, and for a few minutes they’re quiet. Then Derek pushes his plate away, dabs at his mouth with a napkin, and says, “Tomorrow’s the big day.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. He takes a big gulp of his margarita, his eyes watering. They went a little heavy handed with the tequila.

“Stiles,” Derek says. “Do you--I mean. You really like Josh?”

“Totally,” Stiles says. “What’s not to like? He’s great. I can’t wait for tomorrow.”

The words taste wrong in his mouth, and he wants to call the whole thing off. He wants Derek, but there’s no way he can say it. Derek would laugh at him.

“Right,” Derek says. He can’t read Derek’s expression. “Just… be careful with Josh. He isn’t as meek as he seems.”

“Are you warning me off him?” Stiles asks. “I thought you were helping me woo him.”

Derek’s hand clenches around his fork. “I am. But you don’t need much help.”

“Thanks,” Stiles replies uncertainly.

“Can I ask… what you see in Josh?”

“He’s--”

As though summoned, Stiles’ phone begins ringing, and when he looks down at the caller ID, he sees Josh’s name flash across the screen.

“Oh, uh, it’s Josh,” Stiles says. “I should get it. I promised him we’d talk tonight. You know, finalize details about tomorrow and stuff.”

“Sure,” Derek says, pushing his chair back. “I’m gonna hit the can, give you some privacy.”

Stiles bites his lip as he watches Derek walk away. He fumbles to answer his phone before it sends Josh to voicemail.

“Hey!” Stiles says.

“Hi, Stiles,” Josh says. “How are you?”

“Good! Great!” Stiles says. He can’t seem to stop using exclamation points. “I’m out with… dinner right now.”

“You’re out with dinner?” Josh says, sounding amused. “Should I be jealous?”

Stiles spots Derek standing in the back, leaning next to the wall. It looks like he’s waiting for someone to come out of the bathroom. _Yes_ , Stiles thinks. _You should totally be jealous because I am having thoughts hotter than salsa about your ex-boyfriend and my current boyfriend tutor. Goddamnit._

“Nah,” he says. “You know your dinner is the only dinner for me. It’ll be like I’ve never eaten before I took my meal with you. All other meals become mere snacks.”

Josh laughs. “You’re a weird guy, Stiles. You’re lucky you’re so adorable.”

Stiles lets himself laugh in reply, though he feels like a fraud. “Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself.”

There’s a sound at the back of the restaurant like someone punched a wall. When he glances over, Derek’s nowhere to be seen. Must have finally made it into the bathroom.

“Are we still set for tomorrow?” Josh asks. “It’s been kind of a busy week.”

“Definitely,” Stiles says. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Perfect,” Josh says. “I’m really looking forward to it. I think it’ll be great to finally get together and talk. And maybe other things,” he adds in a huskier tone.

Stiles laughs nervously. “Derek said you were a romantic.”

“Derek,” Josh says flatly. “You’re out with Derek?”

“Uh,” Stiles says. “Yeah. We’re grabbing something to eat.”

“You two seem pretty cozy.”

“We’re friends,” Stiles says.

“Derek doesn’t have friends,” Josh says. “He has people he uses. Watch out for him. He never does anything without wanting something in return.”

Stiles isn’t really sure how to respond, but Josh keeps talking. “Anyway! I’ll see you tomorrow. Maybe I’ll drop by early and we can hang for a while.”

“Sure,” Stiles says, half-listening because Derek is approaching the table with the aura of a tiny thundercloud above his head. “Hey, Josh, I gotta go. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Can’t wait.” He hangs up without waiting for a response.

“Are you okay?” he asks Derek.

The look Derek sends him should come with a lightning strike. It makes Stiles gulp.

“Fine,” Derek says tersely. “Are you done? I’m going to pay so we can get out of here.”

“Yeah, I’m--” Stiles starts to say, but Derek walks away before he can finish.

Stiles stares after him. Possibly things didn’t go okay in the bathroom.

He scrambles out of the booth and tosses a few bills on the table. After a second of deliberation, he picks up Derek’s abandoned Blue Moon and downs the rest of the beer. He feels like he might need the liquid courage.

“Hey,” he says, catching up to Derek and his weird mood. Derek’s already halfway out the door of the restaurant, his hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket. “You could come back to my place,” Stiles blurts. “I just got the new Assassin’s Creed. We could play. Or watch a movie. If you want.” He fights down a flush of mortification. _Good job, Stilinski_ , he thinks. Way to seem weird and clingy. A remora could take tips from him on how to latch on better.

Derek closes his eyes like he’s in pain. Maybe it’s the Mexican. “Sure,” he says, opening his eyes. There’s something defeated in the way he looks at Stiles. “That sounds fine.”

“Great! I’ll see you there in a few.”

Stiles gets in his Jeep and practically flies home. He makes sure all the lights are green.

\----

  
“Your door wasn’t locked,” is the first thing Derek says when Stiles opens his front door.

"I knew you were coming over!" Stiles protests. "We literally just planned it! And how did you even know it was unlocked?"

"I didn't hear the lock click before you opened it."

Stiles stares at him. "How could you possibly hear that?"

Derek stares back, then drops his head and scratches at his neck. "Fine, I tried the handle and it opened, okay? But I didn't come inside. I waited."

"Well, that's progress," Stiles says wryly, gesturing Derek inside. "We may make a civilized human out of you yet."

"The last thing you'll ever make me is human," Derek says, a strange glint in his eyes.

“Whatever, caveman,” Stiles says. “I’m gonna make some popcorn if you wanna grab a seat in the living room.”

He heads for the kitchen with Derek hot on his heels. Almost literally, in fact: Derek follows so closely that Stiles can feel the heat from his body.

“Or you can come into the kitchen.”

Derek shrugs. “Need any help?”

“With the microwave popcorn?”

“I’ll get a bowl,” Derek says doggedly. “Where are they at?”

“Top cabinet above the fridge,” Stiles says, pulling a box from his cupboard and extracting two bags of movie butter popcorn. He considers the bags and grabs a third just in case. He’s seen Derek’s appetite.

After the popcorn is ready, they make it back to the couch and settle with a huge bowl between them.

“Did you wanna play videogames or--”

“Let’s watch something,” Derek says.

“You just don’t wanna lose again,” Stiles says, grinning.

“Maybe I don’t want you to be embarrassed when I wipe the floor with you.”

“Big talk,” Stiles scoffs. He turns on his TV and his Playstation and navigates to Netflix. “Anything in particular you wanna watch?”

“Not really,” Derek says. “Whatever you want.”

“America’s Next Top Model?”

Derek levels him with a look and snatches the controller from his hands. “What’s this?” he asks. “Alphas?” There’s a sharp edge to his voice.

“Oh yeah,” Stiles says. “That was on Syfy. I never watched it, but it looks okay.”

Derek presses play dubiously, and seems to relax once the show gets started. “Not what I thought it was going to be,” is what he says.

“Can I ask you a question?” Stiles says somewhere around the middle of episode two.

“Can you?”

“Are we... friends?”

Derek gives him an unreadable look. “ _Are_ we friends?”

“Are you going to repeat back everything I say?”

Derek’s lips twitch and he pauses for a long, pregnant moment, before he says, “ _Am_ I going to--?”

“You’re a dick,” Stiles says, punching him in the shoulder because there are three things Stiles is good at and one of them is scathing insults that cut to the very core. “The dickiest of dicks,” Stiles concludes.

Derek’s quiet for a minute. “Yeah,” he finally says.

Stiles can tell Derek is answering the first question, and it warms him from his curling toes to the top of his head.

But Derek looks like he’s about three seconds from dumping the popcorn on Stiles’ lap and escaping any conversation that involves feelings, so Stiles knocks his shoulder against Derek’s and says, “You don’t have to agree with me, I know you’re a dick.”

Derek relaxes and brings his arm down behind Stiles’ head.

“Shut up and watch the show,” he says.

They spend the rest of the night comfortable, together, and Stiles never wants it to end.

Derek leaves near two in the morning after, “Just one more episode,” became five, until Stiles is yawning with his read practically pillowed on Derek’s shoulder.

“I should go,” Derek says, gently extricating himself. Stiles accompanies him to the front door, and Derek gives him a hesitant look after he grabs his jacket.

“Hey,” he says. “Good luck tomorrow. Maybe I’ll--we’ll see you before your date. We can do a group thing.”

“Sure,” Stiles says. The hallway outside his apartment is so quiet this late at night that it feels like he and Derek are the only two people in the world.

“Goodnight, Stiles,” Derek says softly, like he feels it too.

“Goodnight,” Stiles says and then he shuts the door. He waits a second before turning the lock with a smile.

It takes him a long time to fall asleep.

\----

He sleeps in on Friday, wallowing in bed and refuse to get out until the sun is at least above his window. He had weird dreams about Derek in a genie costume, and Stiles gets what his subconscious is telling him. Nothing very subtle about pairing Derek with wishes.

_I dream of Derek_ , Stiles thinks, still half asleep. Sounds like an old TV show.

He finally drags himself out of bed and looks at his phone to see that he has three new voicemails and half a dozen texts.

He opens his messaging app and reads the first few texts. There’s one from Scott early this morning: _hey stiles! we r going to have a picnic in the park if u want to join! txt me back_

From Lydia, about an hour later: _stiles, the picnic is at noon in canterbury square. bring soda. diet only. you may choose what flavors._

And then one from Boyd an hour after that: _Hi Stiles, hope to see you at the park. it’s a beautiful day._

Stiles skips the rest of the messages and looks at the current time on his phone: 12:47. Crap, he’s totally missed the picnic.

He checks his voicemail next and hears Derek’s voice say, “Stiles, come to the park.”

The second message is a variation of the first, only Derek adds, “Now.”

The third message is from just a few minutes ago and when he presses play, he hears Derek say, “No one has heard from you all morning. I’m coming over to your house. Your door better be locked.”

His eyes widen. Shit, Derek sounds pissed. He flings his phone on the bed and grabs the jeans he wore yesterday, hopping around as he tugs them up and buttons them. He grabs his phone and darts toward the door as someone begins pounding on it loudly.

He gives a little crow of triumph when he has to turn the tumbler to unlock it, and he swings the door open to see Derek on the other side, his eyebrows like an avalanche of grumpiness.

It’s only when Derek’s eyes widen and his gaze drifts down that Stiles realizes he forgot to put on a shirt.

Stiles leans against the doorjamb, trying to look casual. He has no idea what his hair looks like right now, other than sentient.

Derek takes one of his deep, wide-nostril breaths and seems to steady.

“Where have you been?”

“Sleeping,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. “It’s a thing that humans do when they have the day off. This human, at least. Someone kept me up pretty late playing video games. All that winning is exhausting. And in case you don’t remember, I have a date tonight, and I don’t wanna be a zombie.”

“I remember,” Derek says darkly and pushes past Stiles into the living room, looking around like he expects someone to jump out.

“Okay,” Stiles says slowly. “Sorry I missed the picnic. I just got the messages.”

“They were trying to get ahold of you all morning,” Derek says. “They were worried.”

Stiles winces. Doesn’t seem like Derek includes himself in that group. “Yeah, so I gathered.”

“I don’t see why you got a new phone if you aren’t going to use it,” Derek says. His hands flex at his sides, like he can’t decide whether he wants to make a fist or not.

“Dude,” Stiles says. “Chill out. I said I was sorry. It’s not like there won’t be other picnics.”

“There won’t be,” Derek says. “You’re going out with Josh tonight.”

Stiles feels like he’s getting whiplash from this conversation. “What does that mean? If I go out with Josh, we can’t be friends now? What the hell?”

Derek glares off to the side, either unwilling or unable to meet Stiles’ eyes. “Josh and I don’t mix. I know how he is. He’s going to want you to be a couple and do things together. He doesn’t like competition for attention.”

“Wow,” Stiles says. “Way to be a grownup, Derek. I thought we talked about this and you were cool with me and Josh. It sounds like you’re trying to get me to ditch him, which is pretty shitty.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Derek says in frustration. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“Sorry,” Stiles says, drawing out the word. “But I’m having a little difficulty here. You agreed to help me with Josh, and now you’re telling me it’s him or you guys? I don’t believe you. If you’re still hung up on, you need to tell me--”

“It’s not Josh that I’m hung up on!” Derek says, raking his hand through his hair, moving closer to Stiles as they argue, until they’re nearly breathing the same air.

“Who else could it be?” Stiles says, throwing his hands in the air and then lowering him so he can stab a finger at Derek’s unfairly muscled chest. “Just do me the courtesy of not lying to me, okay, Derek, because--”

“Stiles, would you just--your mouth is always moving, you never _shut up_ \--”

Then suddenly Derek’s hands cup his face and they’re kissing, oh my God, they’re a kissing _with tongue_ , and Stiles makes a high, embarrassing sound in his throat, pressing himself closer to Derek.

He gets lost in the kiss, in the wet slide of Derek’s mouth against his, the way Derek drags them closer until their hips slot together and Stiles can feel Derek’s erection pressing against his own.

“Derek!” he gasps, his head spinning, and Derek growls in response, his fangs nipping at Stiles’ lower lip and--

Everything in Stiles’ brain screeches to a halt. His _fangs_?

“Wha--” he says, pushing, his hands firm on Derek’s chest. He gets a look at Derek’s face and sees a monster staring back at him.

“Holy shit!” he says, flailing and shoving Derek away instinctively.

Derek staggers a few steps back, his breathing guttural and rough, and the space gives Stiles the chance to get a full look.

Derek’s eyes blaze red under a pronounced forehead ridge. His mouth is full of huge, sharp teeth. He looks savage and beautiful.

“Stiles,” Derek growls and moves toward him.

“Oh holy God,” Stiles says, breathing heavily as he stumbles in the opposite direction. He shakes his head, his hands out in front of him like he can ward this all away. “You’re a werewolf. You’re a--you--This can’t be--No. I _can’t_ \--”

Derek makes a terrible, wounded noise, the kind of noise you hear when someone kicks a dog.

Then he's gone, disappearing through the slamming front door, and Stiles stands there like an idiot, still trying to finish his sentence.

“-- _believe it_ ,” he says numbly.

\----

He’s still reeling an hour later. He sits slumped on his couch, his head in his hands, trying to wrap his mind around the fact that he's in love with a werewolf, and said werewolf ran away with his metaphorical tail between his legs after kissing him.

Stiles blinks, staring at nothing, and considers. Derek's a werewolf. Maybe the tail isn't that metaphorical.

There's a knock on his front door, and Stiles is up like a shot, fumbling the handle and wrenching the door open.

"Derek--!" he starts to say, his heart in his throat.

Josh stands on the other side, a bouquet of flowers in his hand.

"Uh, no?" he says, pushing his glasses up his nose and peering at Stiles with a petulant expression. "It's Josh. Your date? I know I’m a couple of hours early, but I texted you to see if it was alright to come over. I thought maybe we could hang out before dinner and the movie."

"Oh," Stiles says, sagging against the doorframe. "I mean, oh! Right, yeah. Come in. I just--" he steps back, waving a hand around. “I slept in. Didn’t check all my messages.”

Josh puts one foot over the threshold and stumbles, his nose wrinkling. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

That's kind of a weird thing to say, but Stiles is already shaking his head. "No, no. Listen," he says awkwardly. "I feel like dick, but I'm not sure I'm up for anything tonight, you know? Personal stuff."

“It's okay,” Josh says quickly, his smile all understanding charm. “We don't have to go out. Let's order in. Don’t worry--we can get pizza or something.”

"That's--some stuff has happened, okay. It's been a... well, it's been a week, that's for sure." Stiles huffs a short laugh. "I don't think me and you--I don't think I can really do this with you anymore, Josh."

“What?" Josh says, grip tightening on the flowers. “What are you talking about?”

Stiles wants to tear his hair out. Here is Josh, who is cute, dorky, and normal, holding flowers and looking at Stiles like Stiles is breaking his heart, and all Stiles can think of is Derek’s face and the wrenching sound he made before he left.

"Come on, Stiles,” Josh is saying. “Give me a chance. I think you and I could really have something special.”

He puts his free hand on Stiles' arm and gives him an encouraging smile. Josh is wearing a sweater vest and Converse, and he’s holding roses; Stiles should be head over heels.

“I... don’t,” says Stiles. It’s true. He doesn’t think anyone is ever going to able to come close to what he feels for Derek.

The smile slides from Josh’s face. “What?”

Stiles scrubs a hand over his face, making a frustrated noise. “I don't know how to say this, so I'm gonna lay it all out: You're totally awesome and I am so beyond lucky that you like me, but I can't go out with you. My heart belongs to another.”

Josh's eyes narrow. He drops his hands to his sided, tapping the roses against his thigh impatiently. Several petals drift to the floor. “Is this because Derek got his stink all over you?”

Stiles’ heart stutters. “What?”

Josh’s eyes flash blue and a hint of fang appears over his lower lip. "Derek. I know he's been around. I can smell it. That, and his pathetic attempts to mark this territory."

“Oh God, you too?” Stiles moans, falling back against the couch and pressing a hand to his temple. He's reminded of a scene from _In & Out_, and tries not to laugh hysterically. “Is _everybody_  a werewolf?”

“You're not that foolish, Stiles."

Stiles thinks about the new friends he’s made at school--Derek’s friends--

“And werewolves aren’t the only supernatural beings around. There are others. Witches come to mind.” He gives Stiles a narrow smile.

Stiles’ mouth goes dry. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that you aren’t as subtle as you think. Either you’re a witch or you have a very itchy nose.”

Stiles swallows. “Look--”

“Are you going to try to deny it? Werewolves can tell when someone is lying.”

Stiles scrubs a hand over his face. “No, I’m not denying it.”

“I looked you up,” Josh says. “You have a very distinctive name. And an impressive lineage.”

Scott’s words come back to Stiles: _Josh likes power_.

It makes Stiles shiver. No, that can’t be it. Josh is nice. “I’m sorry, Josh. I really like you--”

"Then go out with me," Josh says, a smile sliding onto his face smooth and easy. It doesn’t reach his eyes. "Let me take you to dinner."

"I can't," Stiles says helplessly.

“Your loss,” Josh says. A sneer replaces the smile, and his eyes are different: crueler, with a dark edge. “I don't see you getting too many offers. And good luck trying to keep someone like Derek interested."

“Hey!” Stiles says. “He kissed me.”

"Did he? And where is he now?"

Stiles doesn't answer, but something must show on his face--or maybe Josh can smell it--because Josh laughs, a mean little sound. He rolls his eyes. “We’re wolves. It’s a territorial thing. Haven’t you ever wanted something just because someone else wanted it, too?”

“It's not like that--” Stiles starts to say, his mind whirling.

But Derek had only been interested in Stiles after Stiles told him he was dating Josh. Stiles has crashed and burned enough in his life that he can spot rejection a mile off, and he knows that when they first met, Derek wasn’t even going to give him the time of day.

It was only after he told Derek why he wanted help that Derek was interested.

Josh's words leave Stiles biting his lip in uncertainty. He doesn't know much about werewolves, despite his studies. He'd never expected to meet one, let alone find himself in the middle of a werewolf pissing contest. Is that all this was? Some kind of werewolf thing?

Derek kissed him first; he’d seemed almost desperate for it.

Stubble burn didn’t lie, did it?

Of course, then Derek ran away, but it wouldn't be the first time someone had kissed Stiles and fled in horror. Three of the four times that's happened in the past, the person even came back.

"Isn't it?" Josh asks, his lips curled in amusement. He seems to be enjoying Stiles' emotional turmoil.

Looking at Josh with new eyes, Stiles sees how his mouth is mean and thin and ambition burns in his cold eyes. He’s been playing Stiles all along.

“I think you should leave,” Stiles says, trying to stay calm.

Josh laughs. “Please. I’m your best option. Your _only_ option. Come on, last chance, Stiles. Think about it. We could be great together.”

Stiles narrows his eyes, hurt and rage boiling under his skin. “I feel a sneeze coming on,” he says. “Achoo.”

Josh looks down at his pink polka-dot skin in horror.

“What an unfortunate rash,” Stiles says blandly. “Does it itch? It looks like it should itch.” He wiggles his nose, and Josh begins clawing at his arm.

“You miserable asshole!” Josh shouts, his voice a threatening growl. “I’ll--”

“You’ll what?” Stiles says dangerously. “Because I think I feel my allergies coming on.”

Josh gives him a venomous look and backs out of the apartment, dropping the flowers to the floor so he can scratch at his arms.

“Never talk to me again,” Stiles says.

“No problem,” Josh snaps.

Stiles twitches his nose and slams the door.

Then the anger drains from him and he sags against the wall.

He makes his shaky way to the couch and spends the next several hours sitting there wrapped in an old quilt, his phone in a death grip as he calls Derek over and over and obsessively relives every minute he and Derek spent together.

Certain conversations make a lot more sense--Derek isn’t Mormon, he’s just a _werewolf_ with a whole One True Mate to Bind Them All thing going on.

It seems obvious, when Stiles looks back. But he's so used to being the only supernatural weirdo around that sometimes he forgets there are others out there.

Derek won’t pick up his calls: an hour later, it starts going straight to voicemail every time.

Stiles stops trying after the twenty-seventh call and thirty-third text. He picks his efforts up again in the morning at a less frantic pace--only allows himself one call and text per hour, he's an adult--but he gets nothing.

He keeps calling all weekend but he never gets through. He can now recite Derek's voicemail message by heart, and he wishes Derek would pick up his damn phone and put Stiles out of his misery.

He doesn't want to do this over the phone, so his messages are all variations of _Can we talk?_ and _Please_.

He definitely doesn't want to do the whole 'by-the-way-I'm-magical-too' reveal over the phone; he's been practicing a ' _ta-da_ ' complete with jazz hands, and that doesn't really translate to voicemail.

But Derek never returns a single call or text. By Sunday night, Stiles gets the picture.

When he arrives on campus Monday morning, he finds the picture has been framed and hung on the wall for him.

He climbs out of his Jeep in the parking lot and there’s no one there to greet him. He'd been expecting it, but somehow it's still a surprise. His chest is tight, and he takes a deep breath to steady himself.

His backpack feels a lot heavier than normal as he shoulders it and heads to his first class.

He’s still thinking about this and not really paying attention when someone hip checks him in the crowded hallway and sends him flying into the wall.

“Ow,” Stiles says, his head ringing and his shoulder throbbing.

“Oh, sorry, _Stiles_. Didn’t see you there.”

He steadies himself slowly, rubbing at his shoulder, and sees Erica flounce down the hallway, giving Isaac a maliciously gleeful high-five.

_Right_ , Stiles thinks. That’s just awesome.

The rest of the day goes pretty much the same. Scott ignores him in Supernatural Folklore, and Stiles is tripped, shoved, and sporting a headful of spitballs by the end of the morning. The only bright spot is that Josh didn’t show up for class. Stiles knows it’s because Josh is still covered in polka-dots and that makes him viciously happy.

His happiness sustains him until lunch, when his tray of spaghetti ends up all over his lap, courtesy of Isaac and Jackson.

Stiles takes a steadying breath and heads toward the trash can with his tray, ignoring the fact that his jeans are covered in spaghetti sauce. He's forced to pass by the table where the group--pack, his mind supplies--is sitting. They aren’t just Derek’s friends, they’re his pack. Because Derek is a werewolf.

Eric and Lydia are laughing and whispering to each other, their eyes on Stiles and their conversation obviously concerning him. Stiles can’t imagine it’s flattering.

He thinks he’s made it beyond their range when something plastic hits the back of his head and he feels a splatter of something gooey in his hair.

At his feet is a mostly empty pudding cup.

Stiles has abruptly had enough.

He dumps his tray and marches back to their table. Everyone’s glaring at him, but he’s too angry to be intimidated.

His hands are shaking as he says, “Look, I get it, okay? Believe me, I fucking get it. Derek changed his mind, he regrets ever kissing me, I’m a total idiot for thinking things could be different and that someone like him could ever actually like me. I understand, so could you all just leave me alone?”

His chest heaves and he swipes at his eyes, furious at himself for getting so emotional in front of them. He’s just giving them more ammunition.

The group stares at him, their sneers gone.

“I won’t bother Derek anymore,” Stiles continues, the fight draining out of him as fast as it came. He feels miserable and it’s not just because his crotch is moist and smells like marinara sauce.

“You can tell him he doesn’t have to worry about me, alright?” He takes another deep breath, his chest rattling. He needs to get ahold of himself or he doesn’t know what will happen.

He sees a glass of water at a nearby table start to bubble, and realizes he needs to get out of here right now.

“Stiles--” Scott starts. He and the rest of the pack are beginning to look concerned.

“No!” Stiles says, slashing his hand through the air. “No, you don’t get to--I said I understand, okay? I thought for a few stupid days that I had friends, that I had someone who--” He breaks off, his voice choking, and whirls on his heels, racing away.

He can’t do this. Maybe he’ll transfer schools again. Maybe he’ll quit school.

“Stiles!” he hears Scott call out, and several more of the pack echo the call. He doesn’t stop.

The ride home is a blur--he doesn’t even remember making it inside--and he twists the lock on the door, thinking, _Derek will be happy that I finally locked_ \--

He stops, his hand still on the knob, and stares down at it, his vision watery. Everything in the apartment begins to shake, and Stiles hears glass breaking in the living room.

He takes a deep breath and wiggles his nose, hard. A bottle of whiskey appears in his hand. He walks on wobbly legs across the living room and falls gracelessly onto his couch, cradling the bottle between his legs.

Then he looks down at his lap. His pants: 0, marinara: 1. He wiggles his nose and sits there in his boxers. He doesn’t know where he sent his pants. He doesn’t really care.

He opens the bottle and takes a long swig, coughing at the burn.

\----

He’s not surprised to hear a knock on his door later that night. Somehow, after today, he knew this confrontation was coming.

He crinkles his nose and sends out his senses. Someone tall, dark, and wolfy stands outside.

"What do you want?" Stiles says tiredly, opening his door in his boxers. He lost his shirt somewhere along the way. The whiskey bottle has been empty for hours, and he regrets that he decided not to drink more. He is entirely too sober.

Derek steps inside. His eyes dart around the apartment like he can't even bear to look at Stiles. That makes Stiles feel 100% worse about life in general. After whatever confrontation Derek has planned is over, Stiles is going to buy out the entire junk food section of the grocery store and eat himself into a diabetic coma.

Derek hesitates. He seems somehow smaller than when Stiles last saw him. "The pack said you were upset. Today."

"Wow, really? Who could have predicted that. Most people take the whole getting rejected thing kind of poorly. Don't worry, I'm sure it won't be the last time someone kisses me and then changes their mind."

"What?" Derek says, blinking at Stiles like he's speaking in Latin. "That's not what happened."

Stiles resists the urge to rub at his chest where there's a hurt starting deep under his breastbone. "Uh, yeah. It is. You kissed me, made a face like my lips tasted like earwax, and then fled the scene of the crime. I get it."

"I don't think I do," Derek says, his brows furrowed.

"Would you just--do we have to do this? I'd like to opt out of the rubbing salt in my wounds portion of the evening, okay?"

"What are you talking about?"

Stiles takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself. It hurts to have Derek here. It's so close to everything Stiles wants and it sucks to know that he was a mistake. "If you're worried about the werewolf thing, don't be. I won't tell anyone. I promise."

"That's not what I'm worried about," Derek says. He takes a cautious step closer. His expression is puzzled, and he does his nostril flaring thing, which makes more sense now that Stiles knows he has a supernatural sniffer. "You don't smell scared. Just... sad."

Stiles gives a half-hearted shrug. "Why would I be scared?"

Derek squints. "Because I'm a werewolf. I have fangs and claws."

"I have morning breath," Stiles replies. "I hear both conditions are manageable."

Derek appears flummoxed. Then he clenches his teeth, his expression morphing into some kind of wounded hero face. "You didn't take it well when I kissed you."

Stiles gives a short laugh, hugging himself as he turns away so that Derek can't see his expression. He doesn't feel like adding 'blotchy crying face' to his repertoire just yet. "Yeah," he agrees. "Why didn't I react better when the dude I was in love with kissed me and then sprouted fur and fangs?"

Derek lets out a heart-wrenching whine. "Was?" he asks.

Stiles glances over his shoulder. "What?"

"Was?" Derek repeats. His shoulders are a defeated slope, like worn down mountains. "You said was. _Was_ in love. I understand if finding out what I am changed that."

Stiles turns back around, staring at Derek. "Are we talking in the same language here? Did I switch to Spanish without noticing? You don't have to let me down easy or whatever, okay? Like I told your pack, especially after today's Let's All Torture Stiles Day, I get it, I really do."

He's angry now because everything about this is unfair. He loves Derek. He didn't mean to, but that's not his fault, and he doesn't think he should be punished for it. Just because he was foolish enough to think that he could have something with Derek. That Derek, Greek god on campus, would actually give him the time of day.

"I'm sorry," Derek says quickly. "About the pack. They thought they were justified--"

"Oh my God, fuck all of you," Stiles says. "Justified? Seriously? What kind of assholes--"

Derek crowds in closer, his hands lifting like he wants to grab Stiles' arms, and Stiles swears to God he will absolutely brain Derek if he tries to touch him right now. "They thought you rejected me," Derek says desperately. "I thought you had--"

"What? When did I even have the chance? You ran away! And that does not make it okay to treat me like shit! Like I don't already feel fucking heartbroken, you and your merry band of assholes decided to--"

"No, but you said--" Derek interrupts, then continues more uncertainly. "When I kissed you. You said no. You said you couldn't. I assumed--"

"You may literally be too stupid to live," Stiles glowers. His heart feels stitched together and imperfect, like the thread could unravel at any minute. He blinks his eyes hard and feels wetness trickle down his cheeks.

"Stiles," Derek says softly. He brings his hand slowly to Stiles' face, and Stiles allows him to brush his tears away. Derek's nostrils flare again, and Stiles knows Derek is scenting him, can probably smell his misery and his heartbreak. He wonders if his magic has a scent; it's roiling under his skin and burning in his throat.

Stiles hiccups, closing his eyes, as the fight rushes out of him all at once. He's such an embarrassing mess. "Can you go? Please? Look, I told you: I get it. I do."

"You really don't. Stiles," Derek repeats, quiet and a little wondering. His hand drifts down until his palm rests against Stiles' throat, his fingers curved around Stiles' neck and his thumb stroking the hinge of Stiles' jaw. He leans closer and presses his forehead against Stiles' cheek.

Stiles lets his eyes fall closed and holds himself very still. "Derek?"

He feels Derek exhale. "You still want this?" Derek asks, his voice like fragile spun glass, like one word from Stiles might shatter him.

"What is wrong with you?" Stiles says, his eyes snapping open. "Of course I do! I've known you for a week and I'm so stupidly in love with you, I don't even care if you shed in the bed. You asshole. Did I stutter anywhere in there?"

Derek gives a choked off laugh, and then his big arms wrap tight around Stiles as he buries his face against Stiles' neck.

"You're mine," Derek says, his lips pressed to Stiles' skin.

Stiles thinks the statement is supposed to sound assertive, but instead it sounds scared and a little disbelieving.

"I belong to no man," Stiles replies, his arms encircling Derek. "But. Yeah."

Derek growls and gathers him up. In three long strides, they're on the couch. Stiles is being pressed into the cushions while Derek looms over him, one hand pressed deep into the cushions supporting his weight while the other strokes Stiles' temple.

Stiles legs fall open and Derek settles more comfortably between them, his hands roving over Stiles’ bare chest.

“Stiles,” Derek says softly. The way he’s staring making a blush rise up from Stiles’ chest, and Derek follows the path of red first with his eyes and then with his mouth, kissing Stiles’ skin so slow and sweet that Stiles feels tears spring to his eyes.

“Hey,” he says, his voice trembling. “Are those sideburns gonna make another appearance? Just--just warn a guy if there’s gonna be a sudden shift, if you know what I mean.”

“No,” Derek says, laughing gently. “That was--I wasn’t ready for how you’d taste. You’re my--you’re special. It was overwhelming.”

Stiles’ eyes widen. “I’m special.”

“Don’t fish,” Derek says, nipping at Stiles’ collarbone. “You know you’re special.”

“ _Excuse you_ ,” Stiles says, struggling to sit up. “I’m not fishing, I’m laying bear traps! Why am I special?”

Derek gives a put-upon sigh. “Stiles. You really need my to say it?”

“Say what?” Stiles asks, but there’s an expectant buzzing in his ears, and his magic is rising up in waves higher and higher inside him, like it knows what’s coming.

Derek leans down and kisses the corner of Stiles mouth, then drags his tongue across Stiles’ lower lip. “You’re my mate,” he whispers against Stiles’ open, panting mouth. “Now will you shut up and _let me kiss you_?”

Joy bubbles out in bright laughter as he brings his arms up, clasps his hands behind Derek’s neck, and tugs until their mouths are pressed firmly together.

Derek kisses Stiles with a single-minded passion that leaves him breathless and writhing beneath the heavy bulk of Derek’s body.

“More, more,” he says, running his hands through Derek’s hair. He kisses his way up Derek’s jaw, the stubble rasping against his tongue, and bites at the spot below Derek’s ear.

Derek gives a rasping growl and wrenches away from Stiles, leaving him momentarily terrified that he’s done something wrong.

But Derek merely yanks off his shirt. Then he’s back, pressing their chests together, skin against skin, their sweat beginning to slick the way. Derek has a fine layer of dark hair on his chest and it crinkles as it slides against Stiles’ skin.

“Stiles,” Derek says, his breath hot and humid against Stiles’ mouth. He bites at Stiles’ chin, his jaw, and it stings and makes Stiles cry out, arching against him.

“Don’t stop,” he says, “For the love of all that is holy, don’t stop.”

“Still your mouth,” Derek mutters nonsensically. “Gonna shut you up.”

“Yes, please,” Stiles says, which earns a breathless, groaning laugh from Derek, who wraps an arm behind Stiles’ back and hauls them closer, crushing Stiles to his chest.

The display of strength sends arousal shooting down Stiles’ spine, and he’s so painfully hard that he’s whimpering, already leaking in his boxers.

Derek’s nostrils flare and Stiles suddenly realizes that Derek can smell him, can smell how turned on he is, the wet beads of precome at the tip of Stiles’ cock.

Derek snarls and grinds down and even though he’s the werewolf, Stiles finds himself the one howling.

“Oh God,” he gasps. “Again, again, come on.”

Derek rocks against him, the fabric of his jeans catching against Stiles’ thin boxers, the friction just shy of painful.

“You have too many clothes on,” Stiles says, pawing at Derek’s back.

“Greedy little thing,” Derek growls, bending to nip at Stiles’ throat. “Don’t worry, I’ll give you what you want.” He fastens his mouth to one of Stiles' nipples, sucking hard, and Stiles wails at the sensation.

Derek’s mouth moves up, sucking bruises into Stiles’ skin as Stiles squirms, desperate to get away and desperate for it to never end.

“Pants,” Stiles manages to say. “Goddamnit, get your pants off.”

Derek pulls back, his eyes hooded, and Stiles lets his gaze travel across Derek’s broad shoulders, over his chest, and down the toned ladder of his stomach where the trail of dark hair arrows beneath the waistband of his jeans to a bulge that makes Stiles’ mouth water.

Derek’s hands go to his zipper and there’s a wicked hint of fang in the smile he gives Stiles.

“Tell me you want this,” Derek says.

“I want it,” Stiles says immediately. “Please, Derek, I want it so bad.”

“Yeah, you do,” Derek says, almost fondly. “I’m gonna cover you in my scent. Everyone will know you’re mine.”

“Just don’t pee on me,” Stiles says.

Derek dips his head, laughing helplessly. “You’re unbelievable,” he says, his eyes so bright and wondering that Stiles has to stretch up and kiss him.

“Take me, you animal,” Stiles murmurs against his lips, and Derek makes a feral noise that has Stiles’ cock jerking hard.

Derek doesn’t waste and more time: he shoves his pants down to his knees and uses his claws--Stiles shudders with arousal--to rip the thin fabric of his boxers and flings the scrap of fabric away.

Then he lowers himself and finally, _finally_ , their cocks are sliding together, and Stiles eyes almost roll back into his head. Derek’s wet, too, more than Stiles, and he has a brief flash of wondering if that’s a werewolf thing before Derek takes them both in one hand and gives a hard stroke.

Stiles lights up, his balls tightening with just that one touch, and he knows he won’t last long.

“So good,” Derek croons against his mouth, fucking both their cocks into his tight fist. Their precome makes the slide of their cocks together easier, but it’s still nearly too dry. The calluses on Derek’s palm catch Stiles’ under the head of his cock, and he moans sharply, his hips jackknifing, forcing their cocks together off rhythm.

Derek hisses and his grip loosens. He lets his cock cram into the tight space behind Stiles’ his balls, like a promise for later, and Stiles keens, imagining what it’s going to be like when Derek’s cock is inside him.

Derek brings their cocks back together, slipping and sliding, and Stiles hangs on for the ride as Derek pushes them together, stroking them hard and tight and so fucking perfect that Stiles wants to cry.

His orgasm blindsides him, arching his back like a bowstring as he comes between them, spurting messily over Derek’s fist.

Derek groans and ruts harder against him, and few thrusts later Stiles feel come splatter on his belly and chest.

Derek brings his sticky hand up and licks at the mess. Stiles must make some sort of noise because Derek’s eyes snap to him, sharp and hot, and then they’re both cleaning his hand together, panting into each other’s mouths as they taste themselves.

Derek collapses sideways, wedging Stiles further into the couch. He licks the sweat from Stiles temple and gives a heavy, contented sigh.

“Mine,” he growls softly.

Stiles is still a little wrung out from the most mind-blowing orgasm of his life. They can argue about Derek’s caveman impression later.

\----

He doesn’t know how long that lay like that. Derek is making happy, growling noises against Stiles’ throat, occasionally giving Stiles’ skin a contented nibble. It’s nice, but Stiles has drifted far enough from post-coital bliss that he’s aware of the come drying sticky on his chest and stomach.

“Hey, furball,” he says, poking Derek’s side. Derek’s response is to bite him on the neck and then mouth at the spot.

“Ouch! Fuck you, jerk. We clearly need some ground rules. Number one, Stiles is not a chew toy. I’m delicate. I bruise like a peach, buddy.”

“I know,” Derek says happily, and Stiles whacks him on the head when Derek sets his teeth into the skin of Stiles’ upper arm.

“Stop that! We need to clean up or you’re gonna get a chest waxing like you wouldn’t believe when we try to pull apart.”

Derek mumbles something discontented into his neck that sounds like, _So much for afterglow_.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Come on, get off me. You weigh like five tons.”

“Don’t wanna,” Derek says, nuzzling under Stiles’ ear. He seems to content to stay curled up on the couch half-naked forever.

Stiles doesn’t wanna either. There’s a washcloth in the bathroom, but it’s very far away.

Then it hits him.

A wicked smile curves his lips. Two can play at the dramatic reveal game.

“Fine,” Stiles says and gives a sigh. “I’ll clean us up. By the way, don’t freak out.”

He twitches his nose twice and shivers at the sensation of a cool washcloth dragged over their skin.

Derek rears back, his eyes flashing red. “Stiles, what the hell?”

Stiles grins up at him and wriggles his fingers in a cutesy wave. “Surprise! I’m a witch.”

“You’re a--” Derek starts, before shaking his head. He drops down and presses his forehead against Stiles’ chest. “Of course you are.”

Stiles realizes after a second that Derek is shaking with silent laughter, and when Derek lifts his head, his eyes are bright. “That explains why I found you so bewitching.”

Stiles punches him in the shoulder. “How would you like to be a werefrog?”

Derek shifts, settling his body so their groins are pressed together. Stiles has a feeling that things are going to get interesting again very soon. He’s read about werewolves refractory periods, though it was all theory. He’s happy to get some practical application.

“Depends,” Derek says. “Will you kiss me and turn me back into a prince?”

“As long as I don’t get warts in weird places,” Stiles replies.

“No promises,” Derek says, dipping his head for a very thorough kiss that leaves Stiles gasping and arching against him.

“Hey,” Stiles says, breaking the kiss. “I’ve got a favor to ask.”

Derek rolls his hips twice. “Yeah?” he asks. “What’s that?”

Stiles leans up to kiss him again, his smile curving against Derek’s lips. “Well, there’s this guy I like, and I was hoping you could help me woo him.”

“Stiles,” Derek growls, pressing him down into the couch.

Stiles wiggles his nose and they reappear on his bed. Derek looks briefly surprised before a hot look settles in his eyes. “Trust me,” Derek says, bending to nuzzle Stiles’ cheek. “He’s already wooed.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Fanart] College Is Fucking Weird](https://archiveofourown.org/works/804695) by [wielka_mi_mecyja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wielka_mi_mecyja/pseuds/wielka_mi_mecyja)




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